


Silence Without Name

by RedSkittleQueen



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Angst, Apocalypse, Creepy, Drama, Gen, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-30
Updated: 2013-10-29
Packaged: 2017-12-30 21:52:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 32,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1023812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedSkittleQueen/pseuds/RedSkittleQueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Man in the Moon is found dying, everyone blames Pitch. Jack's not so sure, until his quest for answers reveals something no one is prepared for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

 

.

 

_coupons_

open the door for air  
and on your doorstep  
is a dead sparrow  
his head and breast  
chewed away.

—Charles Bukowski, _Love is a Dog from Hell_

 

.

 

Silence Without Name

 

.

 

Jack Frost was dreaming.

It was the same dream he'd been having for the past six nights, the same scene over and over again. It was forgotten by morning. He stood in a desert, the dunes glittering as if coated in ice, the sky above black as tar. It was moonless, but for some reason he didn't mind. The sand stretched in every direction without end, the horizon as dark and fathomless as a shark's eye. Some instinct told him it was dangerous to stand in the open. _Shelter. Must find shelter._ He began to walk without direction, each step slow and sluggish, for every two gained it felt he moved one backward. _Faster. Get underground. Before you're seen._ But seen by what? He knew nothing beyond the vast, shapeless pressure of fear. Something was coming for him, something without shape or form. Jack tried to run but his feet were lead, his legs iron. His heartbeat started to pound as the desert turned into a frozen lake that had no beginning and no end. He slowed to a stop, unwilling to run anymore. Jack turned to fight, but instead of holding his staff, he found a hissing serpent instead. He threw it, repulsed. It dissolved into oil in mid-air and splashed the lake. From the black mess grew a door.

Jack didn't want to open the door. He sensed the thing he was running from was behind it, but as hard as he tried to remember what, he couldn't. He never could. The same unmovable force that told him to hide now urged him closer. He moved as if against an unseen current, his fingertips brushed against the handle, pausing. The hairs on his neck rose. Someone was behind him.

_Forgive me, Jack._

Jack whirled to see the creature who always shared his dream, but by then it was too late. It was always too late. The door was open and in that single moment, Jack understood what itwas. It rushed up at him like a terrible, nameless silence, a silence that said,

_Everyone is dead._

Jack woke up laughing.

 

.

 

.s.

 

.

 

“ _Jack, catch!_ ”

Jack turned in time to receive a faceful of snow. He fell to a knee, sputtering, as whoops and hollers filled Jamie Bennett's backyard.

“Oohhh, Jack Frost down for the count! And the crowd goes wild!”

Jack scrubbed off the rest of the snowball and looked up. Jamie was parading around his friends, fists up in celebration. Their cheers echoed in the quiet Saturday afternoon air. It was instant win to land a hit on the Guardian, and in a game where Jack Frost was at his slyest, quickest, most devious, Jamie's victory demanded celebration. Lots of it. Jack's eyes widened as they stampeded towards him for a dogpile. As light as a leaf he somersaulted out of their grasps and landed on the fence, balancing on the balls of his feet with a stag's grace. He grinned down at them. His grin widened as he conjured a snowball in each hand. They shrieked with laughter and bolted like rabbits.

“Run away!”

“Go, go, go!”

“Move it, soldier! Before he gets us!”

Jack chuckled as the kids raced back to the safety of their makeshift snow forts. He straightened. He couldn't believe it'd been five years since Pitch's defeat; it seemed just yesterday Jamie and the others couldn't see him at all. Five years ago he was Jack Frost, prankster, trickster, free-roaming spirit. Invisible. Alone. Now he was Jack the Guardian, bonafide Protector of Fun and Awesomeness, full of companions and laughs. Jamie and his friends were in middle school now, leaving the 'baby-grades' behind. Even at twelve the kid still hadn't lost his love for the mysterious unknown, filling Jack's ear with talk of exploration beyond the stars or the wild jungles or the uncharted ocean depths. His friends were already announcing their interests, which inadvertently led to the topic whose future career was the coolest, which almost guaranteed a heated argument from the twins. Jack always felt a little lost when the kids started talking about their futures. Aside from the few memories his teeth gleaned, he couldn't remember what he had wanted to do with his past life, or very much of it at all. _I was a little older than they were when I died,_ he thought suddenly. As much as he'd like to think they'd get a second chance like he did, Jack doubted it. When they were gone, that'd be it. He shifted his weight uneasily, growing uncomfortable at imagining them dead. He shook the weird thought away. He didn't want to think that. He wanted it to be Saturday afternoons and snowball fights forever.

The screen door opened with a twang, pulling Jack from his musing. It was Jamie's mother, announcing the pizza was ready. There was a moment of silence before Cupcake roared, “The last one in is a rotten egg!”

It was a mass exudes: the warriors abandoned their snowball fight and rushed inside, cheering. Jamie peeled away from the main pack and headed for Jack. The young Guardian experienced a thrill; five years still hadn't worn away the sheer delight of being seen. He grinned and leapt off the fence.

“Hey, sorry about nailing you in the face,” Jamie said, cheeks flushed and breathless. He was nearing Jack's height, hair still ruffled and unkempt. “You looked so distracted I didn't even think.”

“You kidding? It's about time I gave you guys a shot,” Jack said, rolling a shoulder. It seemed like a silly thing to mention he'd stopped because— Jack blinked. Why _did_ he stop? It had been so clear a minute ago, as bright and blinding as the sun's glare on snow. It probably didn't matter now. He was still a little surprised he'd been so caught off-guard; had he really been that inattentive? Maybe Jamie's aim had gotten better. “Consider it a gift for our rematch later.”

Jamie scratched the back of his neck. “Yeeaaah. About that. I promised my mom I'd do homework after lunch, then I'm going to Claude and Caleb's house for a video game sleepover. But a rematch sounds totally cool! How bout next week?”

Jack grinned and shouldered his staff. “Sounds like a plan, kiddo.”

Jamie's mouth did a queer half-smile, half-grimace. “You realize you're the only person who calls me that, right?”

“Oh?” Jack shifted his weight. “Why's that?”

Jamie playfully wrinkled his nose and stuck out his tongue. “'Cause that's a kid's nickname, silly!”

Then the boy was jogging inside, shouting denials when his friends swore they ate all the pizza. Jack watched him go. The door shut, silencing the excited talking to a faint, distant hum. Stillness returned to the April air. He could hear the icicles melting on Jamie's front porch, heralding warmer climes to come. Spring was a scent on the tongue, fresh and crisp like pine resin. Already the snow forts were sagging, taking on forlorn, drooping shapes. By tomorrow they'd be nothing more than gray, crunchy mounds. Jack shrugged off the pinch of disappointment and decided to see where the winds wanted to take him. This time of the year gave them an enjoyable unpredictability. He caught on the tail end of a passing breeze and allowed it to swing him high, whooping like a coyote as the vast expanse of blue rushed up at him. He rolled in midair and looked down. The entirety of Burgess spread at his feet like a giant brown and white quilt; though snow still clung the town with its white claws, brown patches were peeking though with increasing regularity. Jack knew the cycle. He'd seen in hundreds of times before, and he'd see it thousands of times again. The winds tugged, cleansing his thoughts of Jamie and children and dying. He let himself go, drifting, free. He was so intent on surfing the breezes he almost missed the tell-tale shimmers of the aurora borealis.

“Oh, what now?” Jack muttered. On a whim he flipped over and ducked into some clouds. When he reemerged, they were gone. He grinned and performed a loop-de-loop, moisture crystalizing all around him. North was a just leader; he never brought the Guardians together unless necessary, but even after five years, Jack still wasn't used to being summoned like a well-trained dog to heel. The urge for chaos thrummed in his veins, tickling like champagne bubbles against skin, whispering _Left_ when everyone else said _Right_. Ultimately, he knew his delay didn't matter: someone would fetch him soon enough. By the time his toes touched ground it was well in the evening, the afternoon long-gone. The sky above was the colour of fire and spilled wine, matching his spirits. He tried to pat his hair down from its wild tousles, but it was no use. He abandoned it when Bunnymund's tall, rangy form peeled out of the woodwork. Jack flashed his cheekiest grin. No matter where he landed, it was as if sour-whiskers had a radar that could always find him. The young Guardian sauntered over, unable to resist antagonizing his favorite victim.

“Why, isn't it Cottontail. What? No sacks and magic portals this time?”

“Ha ha, very funny.” Bunnymund's tone was anything but amused. The overgrown rabbit seemed more dour than usual, eyebrows pulled in a severe angle. “D'ya like being a wrench in everything? Answer the bloody summons next time instead of making me chase you around.”

“Aw, you know you love it.”

The lanky Guardian drew closer, the ring of fur around his neck bristling. Jack mock-frowned. “Were the Leprechaun and the Groundhog at it again? Oh, wait, don't tell me: you lost your eggs for real this time.”

“You're in a chipper mood, ain'tcha.” If possible, Bunnymund grew grimmer. _Jeeze, he could make a gravestone seem friendly,_ Jack thought. He sobered slightly. 

“Is it Pitch?” Aside from the briefest of sightings, the Boogeyman hardly showed his face since his defeat. In truth, the Guardians didn't know what the slippery shadow did with his time. They had considered spying on him in his lair, but North decided against it. Cornering a wounded animal would do more harm than good. Besides, Pitch had his role to play in the world, and fear, though in many ways a negative state of mind, could teach children caution and temperance. Had they made a mistake in their logic? Jack remembered intimately how close the Boogeyman had come to defeating the Guardians. He didn't like thinking about Antarctica. He still owed Pitch a kick in the teeth for breaking his staff. 

“No,” Bunnymund said, but the way he said it didn't give cause for celebration. 

Jack chose to ignore the foreboding tone and smiled anyway. “Well, see, there you go. No hurry, then.”

“It's something else. It's the Moon.”

 

…

 

_TBC_


	2. ii

That gave Jack some pause. Something was up with the oldest and strongest of them? He looked up on reflex. The sky was taking on the heavy purple of a bruise, the roiling clouds hiding any trace of the oldest Guardian. Jack's smile faded. He looked back to Bunnymund. “Him?”

The giant rabbit took one step and shoved his face into Jack's. The young Guardian could smell carrots on the other's breath, hot on his cheek. He found himself retreating a step before realizing it. 

“If you came when you were supposed to, you'd know that,” Bunnymund said. “You're a Guardian now; _act like one._ Now, are you going to come quietly, or am I going to have drag you?”

“Alright, alright . . . sheesh, Longshanks,” Jack said, lifting a placating hand. “Chill.” He ducked under the other's black regard, discomforted and a little irritated. The Easter kangaroo always seemed to know where to land needled words, just has he'd had done when Jack refused the Guardianship all those years ago. Jack said nothing now, contrite and a little cowed. He hadn't known his absence would've caused such a disturbance; it never bothered anyone before. He had little warning before the ground beneath his feet plummeted into nothing. 

“ _Whoa!_ ” 

Jack fell like a stone as Bunnymund's bottomless tunnel swallowed him up. He yelped and tumbled head-over-heels before catching his balance. He swung atop his staff like a surfer riding a wave and raced to keep ahead of the rabbit's ungentle shoves, wondering what size carrot could possibly be shoved up his tail. In a rare moment of prudence the young Guardian refrained from mentioning it. It seemed provoking the Easter grump was a bad idea, even for him. It was a relief when the tunnel ended. Jack soared out the entrance with all the tattered dignity he had left and skidded to a stop on a table. A Yeti lurched forward to save the house of cards he'd been working on, but it was too late: Jack plowed through them like a whirlwind. Cards went everywhere. The Yeti yowled his loss. Elves scattered as the cards rained on them, their bells chiming as they galloped around. Two collided into each other, resulting in a near fist-fight. Jack winced at the pandemonium, plucking the ace of spades from his hair before looking up. It was night at the Pole, the warm light from the fireplace casting a rich orange ambiance. Globe lights hung from the beams and rafters, adding their soft, white halos. 

“Uh, hey, guys.” 

“Ah, Jack Frost! Good for you to join us.” North turned from the roaring fireplace to face him, beard awash with the fire's glow. He didn't even seem aware of the scampering elves or the Yeti mourning in the corner, looking at Jack alone. It may've been the shadows from the firelight, but he seemed more tired than usual, sporting hollows around his eyes Jack hadn't noticed before. Both Sandy and Tooth were next to him. The dream-caster was sipping from a golden goblet, lifting it in a toast. Tooth was hovering gently in the air, herdragonfly wings _whurr_ ing. Aside from the lavender circles around her own eyes she was as lovely as ever, feathers shimmering like tiny orange suns from the fire, shimmering like the summons he had ignored. Five little fairies fluttered around her, one of them Baby Tooth. The tiny fairy chirruped a greeting. It sounded like the only cheerful thing in the room. Even Sandy didn't quite glow like he used to. _What's up with everybody?_ Jack thought. He straightened and stepped off the table, keeping a healthy distance away from the blaze. 

“Sorry I was late,” he said, not knowing what else to say.

North _pah_ 'd and swiped the air. “No matter. I'm sure there's good reason.” 

“Good reason?” Bunnymund made his appearance, striding to the front of the group with long, ground-eating steps. He laughed a little in disbelief. It was a hard and unfriendly sound. “Good reason? I caught the little blighter zippin around the sky as usual like a bloody show pony! Why can't he answer the summons like everyone else?” 

“I'm right here,” Jack muttered. 

Bunnymund ignored him, focusing on North. “Why can't you accept he's not _disciplined_ enough? He thinks he can do what he bloody well likes—”

“Bunny,” Tooth began, but Jack beat her to it. 

“How bout instead of getting all pissed, why don't you tell me what's going on?” Jack said, grip tightening on his staff. He shot the long-legged Guardian a hard look, enjoying the way Bunnymund tensed and lowered his head, as if preparing for a fight. Over the years, Jack had become aware of discrepancies between himself and the others, as well as a greater understanding of the competitive undercurrent. Bunnymund's and North's rivalry extended deep, flaring up every so often. Jack tried to stay out of it. He had little love for constraints or competition; immortality was too short to focus on stupid things like that. He didn't mean to intentionally subvert the rules, but when the giant furball started nitpicking on how unlike he was to the others, Jack couldn't help but make it a little personal. Maybe baiting Bunnymund wasn't a good idea, but being held to a specific standard irritated the young Guardian to no end. Sure, he didn't have a realm to call his own or an army of little fairies, but that didn't mean what he did was any less important than the others. _I'm a Guardian,_ he thought, _just as much as any of you._ So what if he wasn't punctual? And how was he supposed to know the summons would be about the Moon, of all things?

“Forgive me, Jack.”

Jack snapped his head up. “What? What did you say?”

North held both hands in a peaceful gesture and maneuvered himself between Bunnymund and Jack. “I should've gone for you myself,” the Guardian of Wonder said, not unkindly, mistaking Jack's surprise as hostility. He frowned at rabbit, dark brows crinkling. “I apologize for Bunny.”

Bunnymund snorted, ears pinning. He said nothing as he moved towards the blazing hearth, paw twitching over a boomerang. Jack watched him go. “Yeah, well, the next time you send your attack kangaroo—” he ignored the _I'm not a kangaroo!_ “—warn me first.”

North had the good grace to wince. Tooth flew over and place a small, calming hand on Jack's shoulder. She smelled like mint toothpaste. “We're all a little on edge, that's all,” she said. “Don't blame him.”

Jack frowned. “On edge? Why?”

Tooth blinked. She exchanged glances with North. “Wait. You're saying—you're saying you don't feel it?”

“Guys.” Jack pinched the bridge of his nose. “ _Please._ ”

“The Man in the Moon's sick.” 

Everyone turned to Bunnymund. The rabbit was leaning on one of the posts framing the fire, arms crossed. His gaze was flat. “D'ya get it now?”

Jack felt he was the only kid on the playground not in the loop. His previous irritation mounted, but he forced himself to breathe deeply and talk slowly.

“No, I don't get it. Like, sick how? Are kids not believing in him?” he asked. Jack found that doubtful, yet that was he only reason he could see. How else could an immortal fall ill? Though there was no love lost between him and the Moon, Jack didn't want anything bad to happen to him. When he was new to immortality and hating his isolation he had, but certainly not now, not when he had everything he could ever want. The Moon gave him a second chance at life, and though the road to the Guardianship had been rocky and full of loneliness, Jack was stronger for it. He had a purpose now, and place. A home. A family. Jamie. Jack solidified his stance, looking at each of them. Sandy seemed to have forgotten his drink. It almost spilled when the dream-caster pouched his cheeks and glanced up at Tooth. 

“No, not that,” North said, shaking his head. “We would've known if that was case. But this is different. I feel it in my belly.” North hesitated, falling into a troubled quiet, as if searching for words just beyond his reach. He flashed Tooth a relieved look when she rested a small hand on his broad shoulder. Her golden plume flashed orange in the firelight as she regarded their newest member. 

“You have to understand who the Moon is, Jack. He's . . . he's the one who chose us—who chose all of us. We're all a part of the Moon, so that's why we realized something was wrong about a week ago. It was small at first, hardly noticeable, like a toothache. But now it's bad, like . . .” she struggled to find words, “. . . like a tiredness we can't seem to shake off. That's why we are, well, a little surprised you didn't come to us sooner.” 

Tooth tried to smile, but it came out a little more like a grimace. For some reason it reminded Jack of Jamie. Jack didn't know what to say. Maybe he hadn't been a Guardian long enough to feel what was happening to Moon. He didn't dare look at Bunnymund; the last thing he needed was more jeering from the carrot field. 

“And there's something else, too,” she said before falling into a thin, restless silence, her hands fidgeting. She glanced at North. The Guardian of Wonder nodded and strode away from the fireplace to the main console, a grim expression on his face. Jack lagged behind, taking his time, disquiet in the pit of his stomach. Even when Pitch tried to destroy them the Guardians hadn't acted this shaken up. He glanced at Bunnymund, but saw the giant rabbit wasn't looking at him but something beyond, his eyes tight and ears pinned back. Jack followed his gaze and found himself staring at the enormous blue crystal that acted as conduit for the Moon. Jack had seen the giant crystal once before, during his early days as Guardian. North had shown him. _He speaks to us through this,_ North had said, voice a paternal mixture of awe and pride. There was no awe or pride now. Jack instantly saw a black bloom in the centre, its needle-thin tendrils reaching in every direction like a beautiful, deadly flower. It was no bigger than a child's fist. 

Jack found he couldn't stop staring at it.

“I notice this three days ago,” North said. The fire hissed and spat behind him. “At first I thought it nothing. Now I see it grows bigger every night.”

Jack shifted his weight, at last tearing his eyes away to look into North's troubled ones. “But that doesn't explain why he's sick. It's not like we catch colds, right?” He glanced around. At their blank expressions, he rubbed his forehead. “Have you guys tried _asking_ him?”

“What, d'ya think we're stupid?” Bunnymund said. His voice was nest of snakes. “Of course we tried asking him.” An instant later he was ducking and yelping. Baby Tooth had stabbed one of his ears with her beak, her squeaks sounding suspiciously like scolding. The others pretended they didn't notice, and when Baby Tooth returned to her sisters, they gave her a heroine's welcome. 

“He won't say,” North said, sounding a little mystified. “He won't answer our questions.” He clicked a button and the crystal disappeared back into its golden case. The winter spirit had rarely seen the burly man so at a loss, but Jack himself wasn't surprised. It was something the Moon would do. Even after being a Guardian for five years, the Moon never spoke to him, never once shown a sign of acknowledgement. Jack had come to accept it. He had his memories now, understood his centre; he wanted nothing else from the silent creature. 

But why wouldn't the Moon mention anything about his sickness? It made no sense. Whatever was going on with him was clearly affecting the Guardians, no doubt Jack himself on some unknown level. It's not like the Moon hadn't spoken up before: he had warned the others of the Boogeyman's ascent; he'd even chosen Jack as Guardian. But did the Man in the Moon actually help with the fighting? No. Did he help defeat Pitch? No. Over the years Jack had come to understand the Moon as a creature who hated to interfere. Jack had gone so far as to compare him to the morals' silent god. _He wanted me to figure out who I was for myself,_ he thought. _Maybe he wants us to figure out what's wrong with him._ It still sounded stupid and annoying. Lots of anxiety and floundering could be avoided if the Moon would just speak up. 

“So, you're telling me you have no idea why he's sick,” Jack said, breaking the uneasy silence. He hadn't meant his words to sound so heavy, but they hung in the air like a hangman's noose. He had the grace to wince.

“Actually, we think Pitch may be behind it,” Tooth said, a little too quickly. She looked around for support. “I mean, who else would do this to the Man in the Moon? It wouldn't be the first time the jerk tried something horrible like this.”

“Pitch?” Jack shot a look at Bunnymund, frowning. “I thought you said Pitch had nothing to do with this.” 

Sandy, Tooth, North glanced at each other. Bunnymund continued rubbing his ear, whiskers bristling. When it appeared no one was going to answer, North said,

“We're going to ask him.”

Jack laughed before he could stop himself. “What makes you think he'll tell us?”

“We'll make him,” Bunnymund said, and something in the giant rabbit's tone made Jack pause. He blinked. Sandy winced. Even Tooth and North didn't seem to know how to respond. Bunnymund bared his buckteeth in a smile that was anything but friendly. It may've been the firelight, but they seemed longer, sharper. 

“Don't you see?” Bunnymund said. “We shoulda done this a long time ago, when he was at his weakest. I say we beat the answer outta him.”

“Do you really think that'll work?” Jack said. “This is Pitch we're talking about.” He didn't like Pitch any much as the next person, but Bunnymund sounded like interrogating the Boogeyman was a good thing. Five years ago they had a similar conversation. They had chosen to leave him alone. 

Bunnymund stalked towards him, towering him by more than a foot. “You got a better idea, snowflake?”

Jack leaned forward, teeth bared in an unfriendly smile of his own. “Maybe I do, eggbreath.”

“Enough, enough!” North moved between them, Naughty and Nice pushing them apart. Bunnymund allowed himself to be herded away, snorting. Jack told himself he shouldn't take it personally—as Tooth said, they were all on edge—but it seemed like Bunnymund was blaming him for the Moon's sickness, which wasn't fair at all. Jack was still trying to get used to being a Guardian; he didn't need this as well. He liked being friends with the Easter grump; it certainly beat being enemies. North continued speaking, pulling Jack from his thoughts. 

“As much as I don't like it, we need answers,” North said. “We ask Pitch if he knows anything. Depending on what he says . . . we'll see if further action is necessary.”

“You serious about this?” Jack asked North. “One week of bad feelings and a little black spot and you're willing to sick the kangaroo on Pitch?” 

North ignored the _For the last time, I'm not a bloody kangaroo!_ and said, “This is more than a little bad feeling and black spot, Jack. This is the Moon. Whatever is wrong with him might affect the mortal world too. I don't think this is going to end soon, or well.”

 

.

 

.s.

 

.

 

Jack was surprised at how difficult it was to find the Boogeyman. If Pitch was a shadow before, he was a ghost now; a solid week of searching turned up nothing. It was as if the Nightmare King sensed they were looking for him and was hiding out of sheer spite. Descending in his lair was a dead end: there was so much dust on everything it appeared no one breathed in there for weeks. Jack soon found himself wanting to beat the Boogeyman up just for wasting their time, principles and ethics aside. Trying to follow children with nightmares proved useless; despite Sandy's attempts to track the bad dreams, the dark spirit was long gone by the time the Guardians arrived to the sleeping child. Asking the Man in the Moon for help proved doubly useless. It seemed the Moon was content maintaining his silence. Jack tried not to let the old bitterness resurface, but it was becoming harder and harder as the days went by while he and the others searched for the elusive Nightmare King. He wanted to have that snowball rematch with Jamie, not go on wild goose chases when everything could be solved if the Moon would just _talk_. 

Then they found Pitch at last. 

They discovered the Boogeyman on a wind-swept crag in Scotland overlooking the North Sea. It had been Sandy who led them, and now Jack was glad. He never would've guess of finding him there: the nearest child's bed was leagues and leagues away, the closest thing to civilization was an abandoned row boat beached in the shallows. Sandy never explained his reasoning, and Jack didn't ask. The Nightmare King was alone: his fearlings, if there were any left, were nowhere to be seen. The sea crashed on the rocks below, hissing like an indrawn breath. The air was heavy with salt. The full moon hung low and yellow in the sky. Pitch didn't turn as Jack and the others approached him, dark, slender hands clasped behind his back. He seemed to blend in with the darkness, as insubstantial as smoke from an extinguished candle. Even in the yellow moonlight he seemed a breath away from fading. The young Guardian couldn't shake off the feeling Pitch allowed himself to be caught. There was something about the easy, nonchalant way Pitch held himself that whispered danger, that screamed caution. Though Jack wouldn't admit it, he was glad he was facing Pitch with his friends; Bunnymund's boomerangs seemed a lot more comforting now than they were back in the Pole. He gripped his staff, letting whorls of frost creep up the wood. When Pitch finally deigned to face them, Jack raised his staff to eye-level. 

Pitch was unchanged: the cheekbones, the spiked hair, the sharp chin, the hollows around his eyes were all the same. Though five years was a blink to an immortal, Jack had expected— _What. You expecting he'd be growing older, like Jamie?_ Jack shook the strange thought away. _Focus._

“Well, well, well. The Guardians.” Pitch's voice was a silken purr, his metallic eyes glinting. Jack could taste the threat as if he sucked on a penny, the iron under the friendly veneer tangy and unpleasant. He shifted stances. Pitch's eyes caught the movement and flicked to him. Jack met the cool gaze with an impassive one of his own. After a moment Pitch's regard shifted back to North, dismissing him with hardly a twitch. Jack didn't know whether to be relieved or insulted. 

“Pitch.” North inclined his head. 

Pitch didn't return to courtesy. He continued staring at them with his reflective, almost luminous eyes, mouth thin. Jack noticed the Boogeyman was inches from the cliff's edge: one small step backwards and he'd be tumbling over. The thought should've comforted him, but he still couldn't shake off the odd feeling they were the cornered ones, not he. The silence stretched like taffy, warping and growing thin. The ocean breathed and hissed in the background. 

“Well? Aren'tcha gonna say anything?” Bunnymund said, more growl than speech. 

“What would you have me say?” Pitch said. “Hello? It's been a while? Missed your smiling, cheerful faces?”

“You can stop with the act, Pitch,” Tooth said. She crouched in a fighter's pose when the Boogeyman's heavy, unblinking regard fell on her. 

“Believe me, the displeasure's all mine,” Pitch drawled. “It seems I can't go anywhere without you fools hounding my step.”

“You know why we're here,” North said quietly.

“Oh, do I?”

Bunnymund took a heavy step forward, claws digging into the dry grass. Pitch ignored the blatant aggression, standing as placid as dead water. 

“Stop messin around, you bloody whacker. You have a lot of explainin to do.” 

Pitch seemed to stiffen, forehead wrinkling. “Me, explain?” He cocked his head, eyes narrowing. “You sure you're asking the right person?”

Jack let his staff fall. _He knows._

“What d'ya mean?”

“Do you take me for an idiot?” Pitch said, the tranquility falling away at last. He quarter-turned, hands half-curled fists at his sides. “Do you think you're the only ones who's aware?”

“Yeah, because you're the one causing it,” Bunnymund said, drawing up a boomerang. 

Pitch barked a laugh. It was sharp and barbed, rasping the air like the bristles of a metal comb. “Oh, that's rich. I'm flattered, truly.” He mock-wiped a tear from an eye. “But as much as I'd like to, I won't take credit for another's work.”

“What are you saying? You're not responsible for this?” North said, frowning. 

“He's lying. Can't you see? We're onto him and he's coverin his tracks like the snake he is.” Bunnymund had yet to take his eyes off the Boogeyman. He held boomerangs in both paws now, his head low like a bull ready to charge. 

Pitch smiled, caustic and mocking. “Believe what you want; it's not _my_ fault you're too thick in the skull to hear the truth.”

“You won't get away with this, Pitch,” Bunnymund said, gesticulating with a boomerang. “Going after the Moon? That's a new low. How'ya doin it?”

The Boogeyman's smile faltered. A flash of irritation replaced it. “For such floppy ears you're certainly quite deaf.”

“Alright, that's it—”

“Why were you here?” Jack asked suddenly. 

Everyone turned to the young Guardian. Bunnymund fell quiet, stepping back. Jack ignored them. He kept looking at the Boogeyman like he would a cobra, as if a single glance away meant a face full of poison, or worse. The Nightmare King seemed congealed in place, unblinking, dark face inscrutable. Looking at him told Jack nothing: Jack couldn't tell whether he was upset, irritated, confused, anything. It was like looking at a stone. _Or a door,_ a little voice whispered. The only thing remotely alive were the eyes, but even they seemed fixed in amber, blank, unmoving. The other's heavy regard pinned him in place, but Jack muscled through it. “I mean, it makes no sense. There aren't any kids around.”

The Boogeyman continued to say nothing. 

Bunnymund ignored Sandy's attempts to shush him and snarled, “Answer his question!”

Pitch dragged his gaze away to the rabbit. “What is this, an interrogation?”

“It can be,” Bunnymund said, voice heavy with promise. 

Pitch chuckled. “Cute,” he said. His voice was pus oozing from a wound. “You think your scare tactics will work on me? You know nothing of darkness. I am the Boogeyman; it'll take more than that to get me shivering in my boots.” He made a show of brushing nonexistent dust off his shoulders. He edged backward, robes kissing the cliff's edge. “Well, can't say it was wonderful, but I really should be going. As our dear friend _Jack_ pointed out, I have places to be, children to terrorize.” 

“Wait—if you're not doing this, then who is?” North said, hand held high as if to stop him. 

Pitch's face went blank for a moment. Then a sneer twisted his mouth. “You're the bright ones: _you_ figure it out.”

Then he spread his arms wide and fell backwards, for a split second in time reminding Jack of a girl he'd seen commit suicide off a bridge. He was moving before realizing it, hand outstretched. But he was too late. Pitch plummeted without a sound, and when Jack looked over the edge, he saw nothing but the hissing, crashing ocean, and the abandoned row boat left to rot.

 

…

 

_TBC_


	3. iii

Jamie Bennett loved snow days as much as any sane kid, but when he woke up and found two feet of snow outside his window, he couldn't help but feel a little disappointed. Normally he would've whooped with joy, but this was late April—the scent of mud new grass had been in the air, sun-kissed promises of a summer to come. He sighed quietly, his breath fogging the window. Everything was covered in a blanket of white, even his bike. The clouds were gray and heavy as they hugged the ground. He rolled out of bed, hissing when his feet touched cold floorboards. A snow day. In April. Come to think of it, didn't that mean he was missing a geology test? His mood lightened. And didn't that mean he was a free man? Extra studying? Yeah, right. Cartoons and video games? Oh, yes. As he made his way down the stairs to the kitchen, he wondered if he'd be seeing Jack Frost that day. A hot thrill warmed his belly. It was empowering knowing the snowstorm's secret, and as he poured himself a bowl of Lucky Charms, he couldn't help but feel a little smug. 

It'd been over three weeks since the Guardian of Fun swooped down from the winds, but Jamie wasn't worried. Over the years he'd grown used to the spirit's comings and goings, the truth Jack would be back unshakable in his mind. He munched quietly in the empty kitchen, saving all the marshmallows for last. Unlike him, his sister used every opportunity to sleep in; he didn't expect her to come down until noon at the latest. Jamie's eyebrows raised when his mother strode into the kitchen. He almost never saw his mother during school hours, and seeing her in her sharp paralegal clothes was a rare treat. 

“What funky weather,” his mother said, nudging the curtains away to peer outside the window. Her brows wrinkled. “Wonder where it came from.”

“Yeah, I wonder,” Jamie said, still smiling faintly to himself. 

His mother huffed. “And we just replaced the snow tires, too. I'll have to call work. They don't expect me to drive in this, do they?” 

Jamie said nothing as she bustled towards the living room. He could hear the static of the t.v. being turned on. The perplexed, surprised tones of the weatherman filled the quiet Bennett residence, but Jamie droned him out. He rested his cheek in his cupped hand and lost himself in the blizzard outside the window. The sky was a band of lead now, thick and swollen with snow. The falling snowflakes were almost the size of golfballs, that thick, sticky type great for snowballs. But as he stared at them, the more he realized he didn't feel like playing outside. He was tired of the cold. He sighed, trying to focus on the positives. Maybe Claude and Caleb wanted to play video games. The thought of digging the boots from the attic and trudging to their house brought a grimace to his face. 

He was cleaning his bowl in the sink when his mother returned. “So, turns out all of New England is under this. I guess we're lucky. New York has over thirty-six inches accumulated.” 

“Jeeze. Sounds like a lot,” Jamie said. 

“The meteorologist said the storm should die out by nine tonight.” His mother snorted. “And they say there's no such thing as global warming. If this isn't proof enough, I don't know what is.”

Jamie chuckled to himself. Global warming? As if a Guardian of Fun was global warming. His humor simmered and cooled. He gave one last, hopeful glance outside and found nothing but snow.

 _Where are you, Jack?_ he thought.

 

.

 

.s.

 

.

 

“What were you thinking?”

This was growing old. Jack tried to take the high road, but this was stealing the cake. He affected his best, _Who, me?_ look and peered down at Bunnymund from his tree branch. At this angle the giant rabbit was nothing but head and chest. They were alone, the only two creatures in the snowy foothills at the base of New Hampshire's mountains. 

“I don't know—what _was_ I thinking?” Jack asked, pretending to brush snow off his staff. 

Bunnymund scoffed, hard and low. “Why else d'ya think I'm here? How bout explainin this snowstorm, eh?”

Jack curled his lip in a faintly mocking smile but said nothing. He didn't want Flopsy to know he'd woke up in the middle of a blizzard with no knowledge of how it happened or how he caused it. There had been something tight and brittle on his cheeks. When he had scrubbed at them, he realized they were frozen tears. He brushed off the incident as nothing; maybe he was sleep-casting. That could happen, right? It felt too odd to mention to the others. Sleeping, as with all other mortal comforts, was unnecessary. It did nothing for immortals. With all the suspicion and blame going around, he didn't want to drag his weird nightly habits into the mix, especially not under the attack-kangaroo’s nose. He liked Bunny, he really did, but this _hounding_ was really pushing it. Why couldn't he leave him alone? It had been a week since their confrontation with Pitch, and still no luck figuring out what was going on. They were all worried about the Moon, so why did Bunnymund have to take it so personally? 

“Well? Answer me!” 

Jack rolled his eyes. “What, you want to run my job now?” 

“I wouldn't take your job even if it could save the Moon.” 

Jack's smile faltered, then grew fake. It didn't reach his eyes when he said, “Well, good, because you probably wouldn't know what to do anyway.”

“At least I would know better than to make a snowstorm practically in May.”

Jack shrugged. “Maybe I wanted to spice things up a bit. Spring can be so boring.”

“You're lying.” Bunnymund growled and walked in a circle. “My neck's starting to hurt. Come down.” 

Jack didn't know where this contention was coming from, but he was more than happy to irritate the carrot-chomper. This was pointless and stupid, and no one treated him like a bully. “No, I think I'm quite satisfied here, thank you.”

“Come down, or am I gonna have to make you?”

“Make me,” Jack said, trying to cover the sting of hurt. Though they sometimes didn't see eye-to-eye, they've come a long way from their antagonistic past. _This isn't Bunny,_ he thought suddenly. It all made sense now. This was the affects of the Moon, it had to be. They were friends—

Jack didn't catch the whirr of the boomerang until it was almost in his face. Only lightening reflexes kept it from taking off the tip of his nose. He fell backwards, keeping his legs locked around the branch as if he were a kid at the monkey bars. He spun around a full three-sixty and leapt to another, higher one, balancing on the balls of his feet with an athlete's grace. He heard the boomerang snapping through the twigs as it returned to its master. 

“Hey! What's the big idea?” he shouted, but Bunnymund didn't reply. He was cocking his arm back for another throw, but Jack was already a blur of motion, zipping down the tree. When he reached ground level he lashed out a gust of icy air. Bunnymund ducked, but the tips of his ears were caught in the blast, turning stiff and white with hoarfrost. Bunnymund snarled something unintelligent and raced after him, powerful hindquarters kicking up clouds of snow. In the arena of speed they were nearly matched, though Jack knew he'd be hard-pressed to evade the giant rabbit. Something was screaming at him to stop, this was stupid, but he was too frustrated to listen. If furball wanted a fight, then he'd give him one. 

He was so focused on one opponent he didn't notice the green blur until it was ramming into him. Jack tumbled head-over-heels into a snowy embankment with a grunted _Ooof!_ He shook snow from his hoodie and snapped back into the air. Tooth hovered in front of him, as if she was a protective shield, her back to him. Jack saw Sandy had derailed Bunnymund in a similar fashion. 

“ _Bunny!_ ” North shouted in a tone Jack had never heard before. It cracked through the air like a whip, snapping the Guardian of Hope in place. Sandy floated behind his shoulder as North sloughed through the snow, the red of his giant coat spreading over the snow. “What is this? Why are you fighting?” 

Bunnymund's frosted ears sprang to attention as he pointed an accusing finger at Jack. “He's hiding something, I know he is!”

Tooth _tch_ ed. The bags under her eyes were like bruises. “Apologize to Jack! That's not fair—”

“Then how come he's not feeling what's happening to the Moon?” Bunnymund said. He whirled around, glaring hard at them. He snapped his head at North. “You know you're always going on about your belly? Well, my animal instincts tell me he's got something to do with this.”

“Bunny, what are you saying?”

“Yeah, what are you saying?” Jack drew himself up, hard and cold, glaring at his friend. This was the Easter debacle all over again, where they had all accused him. Later they discovered it'd been Pitch's doing all along, but the damage had been done. Jack remembered their blame like a heavy weight around his shoulders, and looking at Bunnymund now only reminded him of that horrible day. Bunnymund seemed to wince, but his tone was low and unapologetic when he said, 

“I'm tellin you, snowflake's up to something.”

“Have you ever stopped to think maybe I haven't been a Guardian long enough to be tied to the Moon?” Jack said, his relaxed, easy tone belaying how pissed he was. Frost was crinkling up the length of his staff. He made no move to stop it; he wanted everyone to know this witch hunt was going to end, and now. Easter was a festival of sorrow, as well as one of joy and renewal, but looking at Bunnymund's dour, angry expression Jack could only think of a sullen dog, not a Guardian. This wasn't his friend. “Have you ever thought about that? Huh, Flopsy? We're no closer to figuring out what's wrong with the Moon, so you can stop with the accusations!”

“We're not accusing you of anything, Jack,” Tooth said. She threw a heavy, reproachful glare Bunnymund's way. “We had no idea why Bunny is acting this way.”

“Fighting amongst ourselves is not how we will help the Moon,” North said, standing in the centre of their rough circle. He, like Tooth, carried deep, purple shadows under his eyes. Jack shifted his weight, painfully aware his own skin was as white and smooth as ever. While the others complained, Jack never felt better. If North hadn't summoned him nearly a month ago, he would've been oblivious to what was happening. 

“Maybe that's Pitch's plan,” Tooth said as the moment dragged uncomfortably long. “Maybe he wants us to fight amongst ourselves.”

Jack frowned. “I thought we agreed Pitch has nothing to do with this.”

Tooth looked helplessly at him, her beautiful face pinched and wan. “He's our best lead. I know we all heard him say no, but this is _Pitch._ He's tricker than a bag of lies.”

“We could hit books again,” North said, and Jack wasn't the only one who groaned. Combing through North's tomes was like getting stabbed in the eye: nothing about it was enjoyable. Jack always found himself overheating by the fireplace and his lack of concentration was infamous. He couldn't still long enough to be of much use, and by then everyone was ready to bite off his head when he suggested 'study breaks.' Tooth had to leave intermittently to check on her workers, and Sandy had nightly duties. The only three without a deadline were Jack, Bunnymund and North, and the fuse between them had grown shorter in the passing weeks. For some stupid reason, Bunnymund was convinced Jack had a nefarious hand this is. North didn't. Jack didn't think the giant rabbit was one to buck the Guardian of Wonder's leadership, but the heavy looks he kept shooting North spoke of a sullen, rebellious discontent. It seemed nothing could break Bunnymund's dark mood. 

Jack looked down when a small hand tugging at his sweatshirt. It was Sandy, almost yellow instead of gold. Above his head were mountains of books. Jack sighed, then tightened his jaw. “C'mon, guys. Maybe there's something we missed. It's better than blaming each other.” He couldn't help but direct the last sentence Bunnymund's way, but the giant rabbit was already dropping into his tunnel.

 

.

 

.s.

 

.

 

“One quick study break. Just one.”

Tooth massaged her temples. “You just had one,” she said. “Just ten minutes ago.”

Jack's face fell. “Only ten minutes? It's been only ten minutes?”

Ten minutes and twelve hours was the accurate count. Keeping track of time would've been easier had not Sandy ripped the clock from the wall and hid it from sight. It already felt like he'd been there forever. Jack remained furtherest from the fire, perched on a stack of books larger and heavier than him, the vellum brittle and crackly with age. They smelled like they haven't been opened in ages, musty like an attic. When Jack asked North how he'd accumulated such a vast collection, North had shrugged and made a reference to his wilder, more sticky-fingered days. Jack sighed and scrubbed his face with a palm. The Guardian of Wonder didn't look like he was in the mood to talk: he was buried under a mountain of paper, tiny glasses perched on the end of his nose. Elves leapt and threaded through the labyrinth of books, their jingling bells sometimes the only sound in the room. Yetis lifted and removed the larger tomes, grunting under the strain. Jack watched everything from his high vantage point, mouth thin. He wasn't cut out for this. Even Bunnymund seemed more entrenched than he was; unlike Jack, he hadn't stopped once since entering the Pole, not even to take a break. 

_Ugh,_ Jack thought. _This is beyond boring._ He looked back at his book and stared at the squiggly words, seeing but uncomprehending. 

“I'm taking a break,” he said suddenly. “I'll be in the library if you need me.”

No one responded. Jack glanced over and saw Sandy nodding off by the fire. The young Guardian didn't have the heart to point it out, so he disappeared without mentioning it. The further he got from the main room, the easier he breathed. He didn't realize how hot the blazing fireplace was until he slipped in between the silent, massive rows of books that made up North's library. Jack's bare feet whispered on the persian carpets as he perused the forest of leather-bound tomes. It was darker here; the only source of dull, orange light came from a few overhanging globes. Jack walked without direction, mind weary. When was the last time he had fun, anyway? Or visited Jamie? He missed the kid; he missed all of them. _I'm going to see him right after this,_ he vowed. 

His staff collided with something heavy. 

“Hm?” Jack looked down. It was a book, its dark green cover glinting in the low light. Jack grunted. “Who leaves books like that?” He looked around. “Hello? Anyone leave this here?” 

Silence. Jack chuckled to himself. Of course there would be no one here—everyone was in that sauna of a room. His brief flare of mirth died as he hefted the book up. Might as well put it back where it belonged, though as he turned in a circle, he couldn't see an empty slot to put it. Every inch of the bookshelves was crammed to the max. 

“Don't have a home, huh?” Jack said. He winced. “Aaaaand I'm talking to a book. Wonderful.” The leather was supple and warm in his hands, not at all like the raw-hide of some of the others. It was almost as if the animal had been skinned that morning to make the cover. As he peered at it, it didn't even seem that decrepit or ancient. The spine even cracked when he opened it. In an instant he realized he couldn't read what was written: everything was a mess of lines and symbols, as if they were runes. He flipped through, idly searching for a picture or diagram. Nothing. He closed it with an audible _snap_ , sighing. He took one last look around before putting it back on the ground where he found it. Maybe a Yeti would know how to take care of it. 

Jack rolled a shoulder, feeling the muscles flex under his hoodie. He probably should head back and make an honest effort at pretending to work. He took his time heading back, taking the scenic route back to the main room. He frowned a little when he noticed it wasn't getting any warmer, nor any lighter. He gripped his staff and shot up to the main level. When his toes landed his eyes went wide, mouth dropping. The blaze and glow that should've greeted him was absent. In fact, the fireplace looked like it hadn't been used in ages, the hearth nothing but ashes. The mountains of books were still there, but they were completely covered under a thick layer of rime ice. Jack took a step, then another, not believing what he was seeing. A dream. This was a dream. He looked up and saw the roof was nothing more than shattered rafters and pulverized beams, as if a great fist had smashed through. The wind moaned through them, low and wistful. He could see the sky, as black and starless as a shark's pupil. The moon was nowhere to be found. He continued to walk, his bare feet crunching in the frost. The more he walked, the more he realized his friends weren't there.

“Hello? Uh, guys?” 

_Jaaaack._

Jack's head perked up. “North? Is that you?” He hurried around the labyrinth of books, not caring if he stepped on them. He was still shouting for North when he rounded a corner. A lake stood before him. 

Jack froze. 

He licked dry lips with a sandpaper tongue, struggling to remain calm, struggling to make sense of what he was seeing. Maybe this was a practical joke. But he longer he stared at the unending lake's surface, he knew it wasn't. The eerie sense of déjà-vu shivered down his spine. _I've been here before,_ he thought. He took a hesitant step forward, toes splaying as they touched the glass-like surface. Something trickled down the back of his neck. _I'm going to find my staff's a snake,_ he thought, _and it's going to turn into a door._ He froze again, unwilling to look at the stick in his hands. It felt like wood, alive and real. He dared to glance down. It wasn't a snake. Jack sighed with relief. When he looked back, he saw North's globe room had disappeared. 

“Nowhere to go but forward,” he muttered to himself. 

He picked a direction and began to walk, calling out for his friends intermittently. The emptiness was so complete even his thoughts had echoes. Soon the only light came from the glowing blue of his staff. He couldn't help but be reminded of Pitch's lair, remembering struggling to find his way out of the twisting stone bowels. Jack gripped his staff. If this was a dream, then he could wake up. He stopped, bracing himself, holding his weapon like a walking stick. _Wake up, wake up, wake up,_ he though, screwing his eyes shut. That's how humans woke up from dreams, right? He cracked an eye open. He instantly jumped backwards, yelping in surprise. He whirled into action, bringing his staff to eye-level, its business end pointed to a huddled shape just on the edge of the light. 

“Hello? Is anyone out there? Sandy? Tooth?” Jack took a hesitant step forward, staff humming with power. He squinted, trying to get a good look without having to move closer. Something was gnawing on the back of his mind, but he couldn't believe it. He took a step closer, then another. He was near enough to touch it if he reached out. The gnawing grew worse as he recognized what he was seeing. 

Himself. He was seeing himself. 

Or at least, someone wearing the exact same frosted hoodie and buckskin pants. The figure's back was curled to him, hunched over and sitting on its haunches. It didn't move, despite Jack's proximity or his calls. Jack himself didn't want to get any closer, his instincts screaming at him to run, to find shelter. He had to get out of here, but as he stood there, panting with adrenaline, he found his legs were rooted to the ice, frozen. The figure stood up. They were the same height. When it turned around Jack saw his own face staring back at him, except the eyes were nothing but bleeding sockets, the mouth a slashed, upturned leer. It stretched impossibly wide, razor teeth jutting from a mess of bleeding gums. 

_Forgive me, Jack._

Jack woke up and found his sides cramping with laughter. He couldn't stop. It was as if he was being tickled, pleasure turning into pain as he wheezed and gasped for air. Someone was shaking him so roughly his jaws snapped on his tongue. The pain woke him faster than the shaking. He finally got a grip and the laughter fell away. He grunted and stuck out a hand. 

“Gerroff! I'm okay, I'm okay!” Jack said. The shaking stopped. He looked up and found himself inches away from North's concerned face. How did he get on the floor? “Uh, hey there.”

“Jack, are you alright?” 

“Yeah—why wouldn't I be?” Jack accepted North's hand and rolled to a sitting position, groaning as he rubbed the back of his head. He blinked. The others had surrounded him on all sides, each staring at him as if he'd grown a second head. Jack stared back. “What?”

Then he saw it. He was in the library, as if he'd never left. But that wasn't why his eyes widened and mouth dropped. Everything glittered as if coated in powdered sugar, each inch covered in frost. He didn't know how far it went, but the sinking feeling in his guts told him it was extensive. _I did this?_ He looked back to his friends. Their faces were pale and sweaty. Even the normally jolly Sandy was somber. 

Only Bunnymund was smug. “Who here still thinks something isn't wrong with Jack?”

Jack was only half-thinking when he cocked his arm back and punched Bunnymund full in the mouth.

 

…

 

_TBC_


	4. iv

“We found you collapsed on the floor. You were laughing, but . . . nothing like I've ever heard. You almost sounded like . . .”

“Like Pitch.”

Jack became very still. He stared hard at Tooth, trying to ignore the world stumbling to a halt. Suddenly the echoes in his head were ringing. “Like Pitch? What do you mean, 'like Pitch'?”

She grimaced. “It wasn't a happy sound. Like when he succeed in doing something bad.”

 _Great._ Jack rubbed the back of his head, grimacing at the dull pain. He must've hit the ground harder than he thought. _Just great._ The last thing he needed was for them to associate him with Pitch, but as he glanced at his friends' faces, all he saw was worry, not accusation. Even Bunnymund's normally bloodthirsty countenance was unreadable. Jack had expected the giant grump to jump on the chance to lead the questions, but for some reason the Guardian of Hope was silent, and apart from rubbing his jaw from time to time, he didn't move. 

“Do you know why you were laughing?” North asked. 

Jack shook his head and took a few steps away from the dying fire. They were back in the main globe room, the pre-dawn sky outside as dark as blue marble. All of the elves and yetis were gone, leaving the Guardians to their counsel. There were no sounds besides the crackle and hiss of the fire. The glowing lights from the globe shone like city lights seen from an airplane, but they seemed muted, their colour leached. Where once Jack drew comfort from them, now he found none. Something was happening to him, to all of them, and the Moon was the root of it. The dark windows and pressing silence made Jack think they were the last survivors of a plague, or some nameless catastrophe. He shoved the thought from his mind. It made no sense to think like that. _I'm just freaked out, that's all._

“I never do,” he said, voice still a little raw from the laughing. “I just wake up like that.”

“This happen before?” North said, frowning, bristling eyebrows pulled low. 

“Kind of. I mean, yes, but I don't remember anything. But now I think I'm starting to.” He tried to chuckle but it fell flat. “I guess I'm not really a big help.”

“It's alright, Jack,” Tooth said, smiling despite her pale face and shadowed eyes. “Do you remember what you were doing before you fell? Anything at all?”

Jack frowned, struggling to pin down the memory. The problem was, he never knew when reality melded with dream. 

“I was in the library,” he said, staring hard at the carpet, “trying to distract myself. I came across a book. It was stupid—I couldn't read it, so I put it down. I, I think I decided to head back. Then . . .” _Then what?_ The familiar frustration pressed around him like invisible hands. It was like having a word on the tip of the tongue, the images just beyond reach. If he could just _remember,_ everything would be better. He was missing something, something important. Were these blackouts somehow tied to the Moon? 

Jack realized he'd spoken out loud when Tooth said, “That would make sense. We don't know how widespread or damaging this could be.” She shot a look North's way. “And Manny doesn't look like he's getting better.”

“The black spot still grows bigger every night,” North said, nodding.

Everyone's attention turned to Sandy when he waved and pointed above his head. 

North _ahh_ 'd and rose both his hands. “Good point, Sandy!” He turned to Jack. “You spoke of book? What book?”

“A green one. I couldn't read it—there were squiggles instead of words.” Jack frowned and rubbed his forehead. “What does that have to do with anything, exactly?”

“Maybe it could've triggered the blackout,” Tooth said. When they all looked at her, her crest flared. “What? We don't know if it did or didn't. I think we should check it out.”

Without any true protests, the small group moved back towards the library. Jack tried to keep the others between Bunnymund and himself; after all the previous aggression and demands, the persisting silence was unnerving. If the giant carrot-chomper noticed Jack's wary looks, he made no mention of it. The rabbit's eyes were almost black in the low light, his paws soundless on the plush persian carpets. The others' affected obliviousness was strained, but they, too, didn't mention the tension. It seemed no one wanted to think about the strange hostility that had grown between them. They were the Guardians, the Big Five, the defenders of children: Jack hated to think what would happen if their camaraderie fell apart. When they reached the library, he winced as he saw the rows of frost-covered shelves. Despite the Yetis with the heating lamps, the frost clung to the leather and vellum like an invasive, glittering cancer. Jack had the power of winter, not summer—he couldn't undo what he did. The air smelled crisp and cold. The Yetis' breath plumed into the empty space.

North noticed the young Guardian staring at the shelves like one stricken and shushed at him. “Eh, it nothing. We dry books out. No matter, Jack, no matter.”

“Yes, it is,” Jack muttered, low enough so only North could hear. “What kind of Guardian would I be if I can't control my powers? I mean, I don't remember doing this _at all._ ” He looked around at the frozen library, unable to explain the twisting sense of betrayal pressing at his chest. It was heavy and ill-fitting, like a concrete slab, weighing down his thoughts. 

“Did the rest of you find anything while I was out?” Jack said, if only to distract himself. 

North shook his head. “Nothing. Maybe the books we look in aren't old enough to account something like this. The only creature ancient enough who might know what's going on is Pitch.”

Pitch. 

Jack's already dark mood soured. As if the Nightmare King would help them. Even the Moon seemed content in holding his secrets to heart. 

“Hey, I think I found something!” It was Tooth, her bell-like voice high with excitement. They all hurried over and found her holding the green-bound book. Jack's brows drew together as he stared at it. How did he ever think it was new? It looked even more decrepit than the others, its sheets cracked and staggered. Several fell out when Tooth went to give it to North, falling to the floor and almost disintegrating. Jack's nose wrinkled as it exchanged hands; it reeked of mold and attic dust, an unpleasant, rotting smell. Then he blinked: not a whorl of frost covered its frayed surface. There was even an outline on the carpet where the frost had avoided it. Suddenly being in the book's presence was overwhelming. He could sense something was building in the air, like a storm, heavy and foreboding. 

“Listen guys, if I look at another book again, I'm gonna go insane. How bout we meet back here in a day or so? I need to do some flying, or something.”

North grunted. “Jack's right. I'll stay and see what I can find in this, but the rest of you stretch your legs. We return back here in two days.”

Jack released an inaudible sigh of relief and tried to ignore the feeling he was running away. He was a Guardian now, but in that moment, all he wanted to do was disappear. He hurried down the corridors as slow as he could without making it look like he was fleeing. He gritted his teeth when he heard,

“Hold on, Jack.”

It was Bunnymund. 

Jack found himself widening his stance without realizing it. “What do you want?” he said, more brusque than he'd intended. The rabbit took his time reaching the young Guardian, his steps slow and unhurried. When he was within punching distance he stopped, looming over Jack.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

Jack blinked. He righted himself. “What?”

Bunnymund scrubbed his face with a paw, grimacing. “C'mon, don't make this harder on me than it already is. I'm saying sorry. For, y'know, back there. Hounding you and . . . well, everything. Tooth's right: if we fight each other like this, we'll get nowhere.”

“Oh.” Jack didn't know what else to say. An uncomfortable lull filled the space between them. “Thanks.”

Bunnymund nodded once, but stiffly, as if his neck was hurting him. Then he was striding past Jack in a whiff of sweet grass and wet paint. The giant rabbit was half-way down the hall before Jack stopped him. 

“Hey, Bunny! Just a question—why did you think I had something to do with the Moon in the first place? Why me?”

Bunnymund turned, a sharp silhouette in the darkened, globe-lit hallway. Silence stretched, and Jack could almost hear the rabbit's thoughts churn, heavy and ponderous. For a moment the young Guardian thought Bunnymund wasn't going to say anything. Then the rabbit's voice floated to him, and it was devoid of anger, accusation, reprisal, everything. It was low and tired, as if everything that had kept him going had drained away to nothing.

“It's just . . . I'm the Guardian of Hope. It's what I protect, what I sense the most. It's just . . . every time I look at you, all my hope shrivels up. I—I can't explain it. Sorry, mate.”

 

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.s.

 

.

 

Jack went to the last place he saw Pitch. There was no reason for it; the moment he left the Pole he found himself flying directly in that direction. He was halfway there when he realized where he was going, but stopping and turning around seemed a less pleasant idea. By the time he reached the craggy Scotland coast it was still dark. The Moon hung low in the sky like a bloated eye, its proximity to the horizon line giving it a red, bloody hue. It was waning, almost as if a giant knife had sliced it down the middle. Jack touched down. The rocky coastline was barren, the only living things were the grass under Jack's feet and the seaweed clinging to the rocks below. It matched Jack's mood. The last words Bunnymund had said had left him with a sour taste in his mouth. He inspired hopeless, eh? Wow, gee, thanks a lot, Bunny. 

Despite it being early May there was a thin, crunchy layer of dry snow under Jack's bare feet. With a dispassionate, bored thrust the young Guardian decimated a patch of grass with some frost. The blades instantly became glittering, dying pieces of artwork, catching in the red moon's glow. He flicked his eyes up. 

“If you've anything to say, now's the time to say it,” Jack said. 

It was the first time he spoke to the Man in the Moon since learning about the other's unexplained illness. It wasn't that he'd meant avoiding the Guardian, but out of all the lessons the Moon had taught him, it was impossible to help someone if they didn't want to help themselves. The perpetual silence reeked of hypocrisy. If the Moon didn't want to extend a hand of aid, why should the Big Five help him? Why should they pour over countless books, run themselves ragged, fight amongst each other, if the Moon was content to watch? Jack curled his lip in disgust at the Moon's persisted silence. This was ridiculous. If the oldest Guardian didn't want to help himself, why should Jack care? He was already turning when an unspeakable grief speared him in place, holding him stricken. It was as if his lungs hand been coated in ice, each indrawn breath a stab of agony. He clutched at the front of his hoodie, gasping. For a single, dizzying moment, he was sure he was dying.

Then like clouds overtaking the sun, the moment passed. Jack fell to his knees, gulping air as the glass shards eased from his chest. He didn't know how long he remained huddled on the ground, struggling to regain his composure. _What the hell just happened?_ Jack stood up. His legs were warm rubber, their strength gone. He rested on his staff, grunting. It was as if someone had carved out all his insides out with savage hands, hollowing him out until nothing remained but his spine and ribs. He was empty of everything, dearth of love and hope and happiness, nothing but a wight. Jack struggled to maintain his sanity, his ragged breathing very loud. 

“Well, well. Isn't it our beloved _Jack Frost._ ” 

Jack spun around. Pitch stood feet from him, quiescent. How long had the Boogeyman been standing there? The young Guardian instantly became aware of his strange, crippling weakness, of their proximity, and the heavy, wooden fact they were alone. He forced himself to bring the staff to eye-level, its business end pointed at Pitch's face. The dark spirit didn't seem to notice the threat, his metallic eyes like death warmed over, alive but not, as if some unholy force gave them an imitation of life. They seemed to gleam in the red light of the moon, luminous to an obscene degree. 

“What a surprise,” Pitch said. The words were petulant and mocking, each inflection a stab aimed to hurt. “My, do you seem a bit on edge. Something the matter, Jack? Feeling alone, perhaps?”

“Not a step closer, Pitch,” Jack said. He gritted his teeth and forced himself it ignore the shake in his legs. The moment he regained his strength, he was out of here. “I'm warning you.”

The Boogeyman spread his hands out in a mockery of surrender. He still had yet to make a move, his lower-half blending in the darkness so well it appeared he was hovering on nothing. The gray column of his neck was tinted crimson in the fading moonlight. 

“Of course, why would I dream of threatening a precious Guardian?” Pitch said, sneering. “Now that you all taught the big bad Boogeyman a lesson, why should he dare raise a hand?”

“Go cry a river somewhere else, Pitch,” Jack said. The Boogeyman's eyes flashed with something like anger before cooling to their masked apathy. Jack shifted, clenching and relaxing his fingers. He was stronger now, the weakness in his limbs almost gone. Even now he was starting to forget the pain in his chest and the emptiness of his soul. “Why are you here, anyway?”

Pitch snorted, and there was nothing friendly about it, and when he spoke again, his tone was sullen and bitter. “I'd ask the same of you. This is _my_ spot. You Guardians can't seem to keep your grubby fingers away from anything.” The metallic coins flicked to the Moon and seemed to rest there.

“Is there something you're not telling me?” Jack said, glowering. A whorl of frost curled up his staff. The other cast a cursory glance to it, but again he was unperturbed, acting as if it was entirely beneath his notice. He seemed utterly at Jack's mercy, alone, without weapon, but the young Guardian knew better. It wouldn't be the first time Pitch hid some nefarious trick up his sleeve, and even though their interaction was almost civil, it meant nothing. The Boogeyman was a snake, and snakes always hid their fangs. 

“Or something you're not telling yourself?” Pitch said. His eyes were at once cold and shrewd, deadweights for all they moved. 

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.” The words were soft, almost whispered, but the gaze was burning, alive for the first time since the conversation began. They were searing now, hungry, searching, and Jack flinched under their scrutiny.

“No, I _don't_ know what you mean.” This was pointless. It seemed the more ancient an immortal became, the more they loved riddles. The Man in the Moon was probably so old he thought silence was a clue to the greatest riddle of all. It disgusted Jack. Too many secrets and whispers and witch hunts have been going on, and bantering with Pitch would get him nowhere. He never should've come to this desolate stretch of seacoast to begin with. He began to back up, keeping his sights on Pitch. His heels were almost kissing the edge, at his back was a hundred foot drop. The sea hissed and crashed down below. 

Pitch seemed to sense Jack's intent and for the first time since making his presence known, glided forward. “The Moon's dying.”

Jack stilled. He didn't dare believe what he was hearing. “What? What do you mean, 'dying'?”

Pitch was gazing at him as if seeing Jack for the first time, all traces of mockery or condescension absent. He was as serious as Jack had ever seen, and it drove the first shard of fear in the young Guardian's belly. 

“Exactly what it sounds like,” Pitch said with all the warmth of permafrost. 

“Oh, really. And how would you know?”

“He told me.”

Jack laughed. It was loud and rude, bursting in the chilly air like a firecracker. “You want me to believe he's only talking to you? C'mon, Pitch, you can do better. You hate each other. You're not even a Guardian. Why would he tell you anything when he won't even talk to us?”

“You doubt me?” Pitch said softly, and there was something dangerous about the way he said those words that gave Jack pause. He couldn't put his finger on it, but there was something coiled, something lurking, and staring into Pitch's dark face made him acutely aware of how badly he wanted to take what he'd said back. It was stupid, of course. Jack would never apologize to a jerk like Pitch, not in a million years, but he knew in his heart of hearts the Boogeyman wasn't lying about this. His scornful mirth sobered. If he'd been a human his blood would've rushed from his cheeks. 

“No, I don't,” Jack murmured. His staff faltered, then lowered. 

A moment passed between them, its wake loud and ringing. Jack knew the Moon was sick, but _sick_ and _dying_ were two very distant things. Could it really be happening? He remembered the inexplicable gut-wrenching sorrow and found it hard to ignore. By now the moon was gone, the horizon swallowing it whole. In the east there was a hairsbreadth line of gray, the first sign of dawn. The sunrise would steal upon them soon.

“You knew. That's why you were here all those weeks ago,” Jack said. “You were talking to him.”

Pitch said nothing, impassive. 

Jack tried again. “Why did he talk to you? Why not us?”

The Boogeyman's mouth stretched in a parody of a smile, too wide. “Maybe he likes me better. Jealous?”

Jack shook his head, not even rising to the obvious bait. His head was too awhirl with questions, too many emotions pushing up like malignant daises. This was too surreal. This was nothing but a dream, something to wake up from and laugh about. “I don't get it. How's he—he _dying_? He's an immortal, he's the _Moon._ It makes no sense.” He found himself beginning to pace, his body wanting to go in so many directions the very thought of standing still filled him with nausea. Since the beginning of time there was always a moon, right? It was a permanent satellite in the sky, like a well-loved and familiar fixture. The mere concept alone was insane to think about, but seeing Pitch so still, so grave, gave breath to the unmentionable. 

Jack suddenly rounded on the Boogeyman. “Can he be saved?”

Pitch glared at him. “What?”

Jack took a step towards him without thinking, leaning, so focused he didn't notice the subtle way the other leaned back. “Is there a way to save him?”

Pitch's lip curled, his jagged teeth glinting in the strengthening light. He seemed on the verge of replying, gray tongue peeking from between the pointed edges, when suddenly he stiffened like a stag scenting fire. His pupils shrunk.

“Jack! _Jack!_ ”

Jack turned. North's sleigh was swimming in the air towards him, the Guardian of Wonder himself perched on the bow. He was still a ways off, but gaining. He'd reach the cliff in seconds. Jack went to look at Pitch but found the other disappeared, utterly gone. There were no signs the Boogeyman had ever been there, and for a split second Jack wondered if he'd dreamed the whole thing up; it wouldn't be the first time reality and dream melded together. He was still staring at the empty space Pitch had been moments ago when the sleigh touched down. The reindeer bucked and snorted before quieting down, steam rising off their backs in the cold northern air. North clicked Russian praises at them as he dismounted the craft.

“What is it?” Jack said. “You said we wouldn't have to meet up in two days.”

“I couldn't wait,” North said. He was half-dressed, not even wearing his fur hat or customary cloak. In the low iron light his skin was gray and splotchy. In one hand was the green, decaying book. “I found it. I found what is wrong with Man in Moon. It's not good.”

“I know,” Jack heard himself say. “I think he's dying.” 

 

…

 

_TBC_


	5. v

The lights flickered for the last heroic time before sputtering out, and Jamie shared a collective groan with his sister as darkness descended upon the kitchen table. It was evening, and despite the late hour of the sunset, the sky was a roiling lather of iron clouds and falling snow. The wind scratched at the windows with needled claws, moaning entreaties to be let in. Snow was creeping up the latticework; two days ago Sophie had joked snow would bury the house. She wasn't laughing now. _What's Jack's_ _deal?_ Jamie thought. Since the initial snowfall four days ago, it hadn't stopped since. He hadn't gone to school in almost a week. The car was an indistinct blob buried somewhere in the snowbank. The grate of plow trucks rumbled through every two hours or so, reminding Jamie this wasn't a dream, this was actually happening. 

The radiators that had been thrumming fell silent, the electricity keeping them afloat gone. Jamie tried not shiver, not liking the broad, empty silence that seemed to descend upon the house like a shroud. It filled the spaces like a suffocating blanket, his breath in his ears quick and light. He almost jumped when his mother's warm, dry hand ghosted over his forearm. 

“Could you get the candles, honey? They're in the pantry.”

“Sure,” he said. Jamie hopped off his chair and made his blind way over to where the emergency candles and matches were. He passed his father in the foyer. The man was putting his boots on, grunting with the laces. Something made the boy stop. His father hadn't noticed him, and Jamie watched as his father shrugged on his coat, pushed the door open, and stepped out into what all agreed to be a blizzard. A blast of cold air rushed at him, stray snowflakes swirling in. Then the door was shut. Silence once again descended upon the house, this time a little colder. Jamie hugged his arms to his chest and hurried to the pantry. Within moments he found the candles and swiped the matches, but not before peering out the darkening window with the slim hope Jack Frost was out there. 

“Did a monster eat you up along the way?” his mother called out drily. He could hear his sister giggling. 

“Hold your horses,” Jamie grumbled, but he made his way all the same. He handed them to his mother and listened to her crack the box open and the musical twinkle as she searched for a match. She struck it. A pungent, caustic scent of sulfur filled the air before fading away as he admired her sure, steady hands as she handled the fire. Within seconds all the three candles were lit and a secretive, furtive aura fell about the kitchen. Jamie pretended he was in the Renaissance, going over stolen plans with his compatriots before the law found out. Then he shook the daydream away; he was getting too old for those silly thoughts. 

“Where did Dad go?” he asked. 

“Turning on the generator.” 

“What's a generator?” Sophie asked. 

As his mother explained what it was, Jamie watched a yellow flame reach and sputter in a sudden air current. Like a cat licking itself calm it eventually subsided and grew content. He hardly stirred when his father breezed in, smelling of snow and gasolene. It was a strangely comforting scent. Seconds later the electricity returned, the warm lights filling the house, chasing away the gloom. 

“There. That should hold us up for a couple of hours or so, until the town gets its act together,” his father said. He rubbed his rough, weathered hands together and blew into them. 

“Never thought we'd be kicking in the heat in May,” his mother said, frowning. Jamie didn't like when his mother frowned; it made her fifteen years older.

“Snowstorms in May aren't unheard of.” His father chuckled. “Why, I remember as a kid . . .”

Jamie tuned them out as his father regaled his days 'as a youngster,' which somehow sparked a debate between his parents on the merits of propane v. wood furnace. Those topics weren't as nearly as interesting as the argument running through his head. He caught Sophie's eye. She also knew the Guardian behind the freak snowstorm, but not the reason. At seven Sophie could be as annoying as any kid sister, but she had her moments of acuteness. Looking at her unsmiling face told him this would be one of those times. Jamie often wondered if she'd follow their mother's footsteps in the field of law. Probably. 

Despite the blazing overhead lights the darkness and the snow seemed to remain in her gaze. He didn't have to ask her to follow him; she was already trailing behind as he excused himself from the supper table. 

“This is weird, even for Jack,” Jamie said when they were alone. 

“Think he broke up with a girlfriend?”

Jamie snorted. “Girls are gross. Why would he ever have a girlfriend?”

“Girls aren't gross!”

Jamie sighed. “Fine. Girls aren't gross. But I don't think that's the reason for all this snow.” He chewed on the inside of his cheek, glumly peering outside. It was fully night now, and nothing could be seen aside from a few suggestions. A few of the other houses had their lights on from generators, but the majority were dark. He should've been going out with his friends, ordering ice cream at the local dairy bar, not sit cooped up inside. Or riding his bike. Or exploring the creek. 

“Do you think he's angry?” she asked. 

Jamie frowned. “Jack? Angry?” He tried to picture his friend mad, but all he could see was Jack's smiling, chuckling self. He shook his head. “I don't think so, Soph.” 

“I hope he comes back soon,” she said, then rested her head against his arm. It'd been so long since his sister sought comfort from him he didn't know what to do at first. He fought the urge to make sure no one was looking before wrapping his arm around her thin shoulders and hugged her tight. He didn't know what else to say, so together they watched the storm rage outside, the worry neither of them wanted to mention creeping into their hearts. 

 

.

 

.s.

 

.

 

_I have to find Pitch._

Jack crouched on the railing in North's globe room, perched on the balls of his feet with careless ease. Since returning to the Pole with North he was oblivious of the others' astonishment and aghast shock following North's announcement. Jack heard the phrases 'Ragnarok' and 'end of the world', but all he could think about was that singular moment with Pitch's tongue caught between his teeth, teetering the verge of speaking. Pitch knew. He knew how to save the Moon. Jack was convinced, and every minute he spent here, the strange illness continued to sap the Man in the Moon's strength. Who knew how long the Moon had. 

_No, don't think like that,_ Jack thought. _All you have is Pitch's word. He could be lying._

But the pervasive sinking feeling, the one that refused to leave since the cliffside, whispered otherwise. It was the same cancerous growth invading the Moon's crystal, unshakeable. Unavoidable. Every attempt at disillusion only left a sour taste in his mouth. 

A violent clatter shot Jack's head up, his hand spasming around the staff. 

“I refuse to believe it, North,” Tooth said, crest bristling. There was a high, splotchy flush over the bridge of her nose as she hovered over the broken pottery, her wings _whirr_ ing. When Sandy moved to comfort her, she shoved him away. “There's no way the world's ending. Look! Just a couple of weeks ago it was Easter!”

“But it explains everything, Tooth,” North tried to say, his voice soothing. It only riled her up more. “The black spot, his fading, our tir—”

“I want to hear it from him!” Hot anger seared the Tooth Fairy's eyes, furious red roses growing on her cheeks. “There's no way I'm accepting this, this rubbish from some mangy book! He chose us—chose all of us. We've done so much for him. He _owes_ us an explanation. _Anything_. I'm not believing this garbage till he says otherwise.” 

Her hands were curled fists, knuckles white. For no reason she reminded Jack of a burning stable, the rafters crashing as their nails melted away, the beams and walls buckling, the dying horses screaming as their manes caught afire. The image made no sense. He shook it away, disturbed. 

“Then you're going to wait a long time,” Jack found himself saying, more bitterly than he'd intended. He intimately knew the betrayal that licked at Tooth's bones and some traitorous part couldn't help but feel vindicated. It was about time someone knew the same anger. “Trust me. I know.”

His words seemed to soften some of the bite out of her thunderous expression, but traces remained. Her mouth was a hard line as she looked away. _Leave it to the Moon to treat his 'children' worse than his enemies,_ Jack thought, still more bitter than he realized capable. Yet the Moon had spoken to Pitch. If anyone else would've told him that, Jack would've laughed in their faces: he already laughed in the Boogeyman's. Out of all the creatures the Moon would want by his deathbed, why would it be the one creature who wanted his destruction? The young Guardian didn't delude himself: he was still a child compared to the others. Three hundred and five years for an immortal was a blink of an eye, a mere hiccup. How could he know the depth and breadth of the Moon and Pitch's relationship? Jack wasn't arrogant enough to pretend to believe he knew the strange workings of the universe. As far as he was concerned, there was only thing he knew with ground-shaking certainty, the only thing keeping him sane amidst all this insanity. 

He was a Guardian. Children needed him. 

“You said it yourself he's dying,” North said to Jack. “Out on the cliff. When I landed. Why did you say that?”

“I . . .” Suddenly everyone was peering at him. Jack coughed. “Just a guess?”

“A guess,” Bunnymund said dryly. Now everyone was looking at the giant rabbit. 

Jack felt his hackles rising. The worse part was he knew he was lying this time. “Yeah. Exactly what I said. And I remember saying 'I think.' Is it a crime to think?”

“Easy, Jack. He meant nothing by it,” North said, but he gave Bunnymund a hard look nonetheless. Bunnymund ignored him with nonchalant haughtiness, never taking his eyes off the younger Guardian. Jack's gaze twitched and dropped. He fumed, but he couldn't afford the others knowing the truth of his knowledge. What could he say? _Oh, hey, gee, Pitch told me._ That would float well with the others, especially Bunnymund. Jack also couldn't bring himself to mention the strange agony that had torn everything from his chest. He still wasn't sure if he fabricated the whole thing up; even thinking about it now was vague and cloudy, like trying to remember a dream. They'd think him insane for sure.

“What did the book say again, exactly?” Jack asked, if only to draw attention away from him. 

North sighed, sounding as worn and gray as the pallor as his skin. Even his beard seemed more gray than white. He cracked open the green book in his hands, and Jack was close enough to smell the cloying scent of mildew and rotting vellum. His nose crinkled. 

“The reason you couldn't read it was because it was written in very old language. It's even older than I am,” North said. He chuckled. No one joined him. The burly Guardian cleared his throat with a discomforted swallow and continued, “It's ancient Norse. It said—” 

“That's a human language,” Tooth interrupted. Jack blinked, astonished. He'd never heard such a cutting, dismissive tone leave her lips. Her crest was still bristling like a war flag. “Are you saying humans predicted the end of the world? What do humans know?”

“Tooth.” The rebuke wasn't rough, but it she whirled on their leader just the same. 

“Don't 'Tooth' me, North. I'm not going to apologize for this. It just doesn't make sense. Why would something this terrible happen to the Moon and he wouldn't tell us? End of the world? Really? This is too soon, this is ridiculous. I'm going to clear my head, so don't you even thinkof following me.”

No one moved as Tooth stormed out of the globe room with a tornado's violence, the fury from her wingbeats sending several elves tumbling to the ground. The silence in her wake was ringing. Sandy pouched his cheeks and grimaced. 

“I don't blame her,” Jack said when the moment stretched into uncomfortable proportions. “If I wasn't already used to the Moon, I'd be doing the same exact same thing.”

“It is odd for Man in Moon not to speak up about this,” North murmured, almost to himself.

“Didn't the humans say in the book the actual moon would be swallowed by a giant wolf?” Bunnymund said, a little too loudly. “I don't know bout you, mate, but I'm not seeing any wolves around.”

“Eh, they embellish—they _are_ humans after all. The details don't matter; maybe wolf is metaphor for the end. We can all agree the Moon is fading. He is diminishing, and with that, so are we.” 

Bunnymund snorted. “I don't see myself shrinking.”

North shook his head. “Not like that, Bunny. When Pitch attacked us all those years ago, he attacked our powers through the children. But this . . . this is more. It _has_ to mean the worse. This will extend into the human world, though I can't say the whens and hows. I don't think this is something we can't fight.”

“But maybe something we can fix,” Jack said, stepping down from his perch. 

North's face broke out in an enormous beam. “Ah-ha! You have plan to share?”

 _Pitch can tell us,_ his heart wanted to say, but his mouth said instead, “Er, not really, but I think I may have a lead. I just need to check something out.”

“I'll go with you,” Bunnymund said immediately. 

Jack fixed his easiest, most disarming smile and turned to the rabbit. “No offense, Cottontail, but you and I aren't very good flavors to mix right now. I think a solo mission would be better.”

Bunnymund's eyes narrowed. “Afraid I'll see something I won't like?”

“What, like your reflection?”

The eyes were slits now. “Cute.”

“Aw, thanks.”

“Why don't you stay here with me, Bunny?” North said, closing the green book with a diseased crackle. “I'll need help to reach the Moon. Tooth's right. There's no reason for him to stay quiet. And I'd like to re-read this book again in case I missed something. Yes, yes, Sandy, I know you have duties—why didn't you say so sooner? Why don't you come back when you have time, then. Oh, before you leave . . .” 

As North continued to talk to the little dream-caster, Jack was still locked in a staring contest with the giant grump. He hid a breath of relief when Bunnymund looked away first. Without making like he was fleeing, Jack strolled back to the railing and kicked off. He was soaring out the skylight and in the emptiness seconds later, a blast of frigid air greeting him like an old friend. Jack didn't realize how tense he'd been as he relaxed in the wind's embrace. He was soon rocketing at searing speeds, traveling over the breadth of the Arctic like a bullet. It seemed like centuries had passed since the initial summons, lifetimes compounded by eons. End of the world? The Moon dying? Tooth was right: they all needed to clear their heads. In Jack's case, he had a Boogeyman to track down. 

 

.

 

.s.

 

.

 

It was still morning by the time Jack reached the outskirts of Burgess, but the thick, tumultuous clouds pressed all around gave the semblance of late afternoon. The sun was a nonexistent blimp, the light it cast weak and insignificant. The young Guardian hovered over the blanket of white, the snowstorm whipping around him like a snarling whirlwind. Jack found his centre, riding out the worse of the currents with expert ease, dancing on the lashing buffets with breathless effort. A storm of this magnitude wasn't exactly beyond his control, but stopping it entirely would be strenuous and consuming. It would take time to soothe the wretched beast, precious time Jack simply didn't have. _Soon, Jamie, I promise I'll see you,_ Jack thought. _Just hold on a little longer._

He couldn't afford distractions. Not now. Not when so much was held at stake. 

It took a little time to orient himself, but he found the entrance to Pitch's lair buried under four feet of snow. A blast of air was all it took to muscle himself in. Jack dropped down. Within seconds the keening whistles and moans died to the faintest of whispers. Darkness replaced iron light. As always, he hated this place. The empty bridges seemed to stretched without end or beginning, held in suspended animation. The twisting staircases reflected the strange dead light, not a single speck of dust swirling. Jack gripped his staff and padded deeper into the belly of the stone monster, his naked soles slapping on ice-cold stones. The cages hardly stirred on their iron leashes as he darted from one to another, searching for a single breath of movement, a hint of disturbance. Just as when the Guardians had explored Pitch's lair the first time, the air of abandonment clung to the realm.

It was as if Pitch upped and left years ago. 

Jack landed on a bridge and peered down. Oblivion stared back at him, as deep as despair and just as black. He curled his lip and leaned away, shaking off the sudden shudder. 

“Pitch? You out there?” he called. 

If anything, the silence grew louder. It filled the broad, empty space as if it were a physical thing, pressing all around him like an invisible weight. 

_Jaaack._

Jack whirled, heart in his throat. “Pitch? Is that you?”

No answer. The simultaneous thoughts _I shouldn't have come alone_ and _It has to be like this_ rocketed in his head. Despite himself he wished for the comfort of his friends. He took a few steps in the direction he thought the voice had come from, ears straining for a whisper of fabric on flagstone, anything. The voice had come from around the corner. He inched his way around. 

A lake stood before him. 

Jack froze, eyes flying wide. Then he straightened, groaning. “You've got to be kidding me.” Another blackout? He looked over his shoulder. Yup. Pitch's lair was gone. “This is ridiculous,” he muttered, trying to shake off the disturbing reality of how easily he'd slipped into it. How extensive was the fantasy this time? Was entering Pitch's lair all false? Was he even near Burgess? 

“I'm getting real tired of this!” he shouted. There were no echoes. It was as if the black as a muffling cloth, absorbing every sound. He took a step. “Hey! You listening?”

_Jaaack._

Jack spun around. His staff glowed blue. “That's more like it,” he muttered under his breath. In a louder voice, he said, “Hello? Show yourself!”

_I am_

_so_

_sorry._

There was something wrong. The words were fainter than usual, disjointed. It was as if he was hearing them through a fritzing radio, reminding Jack of the time Jamie chased a song through different stations. The fuzzy grit between the spaces were at once unspeakably loud and deathly soft. But that wasn't the worse part. Jack suddenly connected the voice with the same one who told him his name all those centuries ago. He squinted into the darkness, the first true stirrings of dread dripping in his veins. 

“. . . Moon? Is that you?” 

He suddenly realized the muffling quality of the black surrounding the lake was an immense presence, not the absence of one. 

_forgive me forg_

_ive me forgiv eme fo rgi vem_

“Wait, wait, stop, you're not making any sense—” Jack licked his lips, throat parched. He tried to find a face to stare at, but the impenetrable wall of nothingness was as blank and featureless as a mountain's yawning chasm. “Why, why are you saying sorry? What do you mean?”

The strange, babbling mantra faded into nothing. The radio-esque static was gone. Jack strained for an answer till it hurt. 

“Still don't get it, do you.”

Jack whirled around, fury and fear mingled in a single explosive cocktail, and found he was looking at himself. It was the same figure as the previous dream, his mirrored reflection. Unlike last time there was no bleeding sockets or slashed mouth. This reflection was whole, the only difference being the eyes: they were without iris, all white expect for a tiny black pinprick. Jack shifted his stance into a fighting one, shepherd's crook held at eye-height. The mirrored reflection's mouth stretched in the smile, but it was all wrong, as if it were an ill-fitting suit. 

“Who the hell are you?” Jack said. 

Mirror-Jack shrugged. “I'm you.” Even its voice was the same as Jack's, down to the inflection and jaunt. The eyes were weird to look at. They hadn't blinked once. 

“You're me,” Jack said, deadpan. 

“Okay, okay, I see I need some clarification. I'm . . . your power.”

“My power.” Jack stared hard, frowning. His staff was dropping in increments. “You're winter.” 

The smile turned to an all-out beam. “Wow, you're a quick one.”

“Thanks. I try.” Jack righted his staff and stepped away. His reflection didn't move after him, the disconcerting smile still stretching its lips like an obscene come-on. Jack looked around. They were still on the lake, but the darkness seemed emptier now, no longer dense. When he clacked the butt of his staff against the surface, the sound echoed. 

“What's going on? What's up with the Moon? Why was he sounding like that?” he asked. 

“Poor fool's going senile,” Mirror-Jack said, shrugging. “Kinda like humans when they get soft and funny in the head.”

“What?” Jack scowled. He didn't like the dismissive tone the other used. This was the Moon they were talking about, and though there was no love lost, the Man in the Moon still deserved a micron of respect.

“You heard me. He's losing it. He dreams worse than you do, and that's saying something. Don't tell me you haven't noticed, Jack,” his reflection said. His teeth were dazzlingly white, all pearls strung in a row. 

“Yeah, I've noticed. He's sick,” Jack heard himself say, but even as the words left his mouth, his mirrored persona chuckled. 

“We both know he's a little more than 'sick.' I suppose he's saying sorry because you had to find out this way. Because, you see, you're killing him.”

“ _What?_ ” Jack couldn't believe this. He wanted to laugh, and he did, his bark of disbelief cracking across the ice like a shotgun blast. “I'm _what_?”

His reflection laughed too, and it was himself laughing, but not really. Not at all. His own laughter rang in his ears but it was all wrong, too gleeful, too careless. Mirror-Jack raised its hands as if in mock surrender, still chuckling as if it simply couldn't contain itself. 

“Before you freak out, don't worry: it's not by accident or anything. Trust me, he's seen this coming for a loooong while. He sorta picked you for the job. You're his choice of poison.”

“Wha-what? What do you mean? I'm a Guardian—the Man in the Moon chose me to be a _Guardian_.”

“That's not all he chose you for, I'm afraid,” Mirror-Jack said quietly.

“I don't believe you.”

“Really.” The reflection sighed, twirling a staff between the long, elegant fingers. It was the same as Jack's except, like the other's eyes, slightly _wrong._ It looked like it was covered in thorns. How the reflection didn't prick himself was a miracle.“Then how can you explain all of the snowstorms happening all over the world at exactly the same time? You think Burgess is the only place with a freak snowfall? While you've been napping I've kinda been having a blast—no pun intended, sorry. Because I don't think you were paying attention to what North said when he read from the little green book. Ice is going to cover the world, Jack. Cold and snow. That's how it ends, understand?” 

“No,” Jack said. He was backing up. “I don't believe you.”

The other shrugged and leaned against its staff. “Eh, what does it matter? You'll believe me eventually.”

Jack couldn't believe his ears. This was nothing but a bad dream, something he'll wake up from and shake off. There was no way he was responsible for what was happening to the Moon, none at all. He needed to sit. He needed to fly. The other's strange eyes flashed, narrowing. It _tssk_ 'd. 

“Things are different now, I'm afraid,” Mirror-Jack said coolly. “You'll remember everything when you wake up.”

Jack stiffened. “You can hear my thoughts?”

“I'm you, remember? Of course I can.”

“Wait. If you're my power, I control you, don't I?” Jack shoved a finger in the other's face. “I command you to stop this!”

The other blinked and became cross-eyed. It pursed its lips, making no move to remove the finger from its personal space. “If it were any other time, I'd say absolutely. But it's a little late for that. As ole Manny's power weakens, mine grows. You've noticed how you never grew tired while all the others grew fainter, right? You're welcome. Soon I'll be strong enough to control your waking body instead of having to resort to blackouts.”

Jack stared, aghast. Bunnymund's words scrawled across the wall of his mind. 

_Every time I look at you, all my hope shrivels up._

Mirror-Jack snorted. “Oh, yeah. About that rabbit. Pesky things, aren't they? Animal instincts. I hate those. You did a great job getting him off your back, though. Nicely done.”

“Shut up,” Jack said. He pinched his own arm. _Wake up, wake up, wake up._

His reflection narrowed its iris-less eyes. After a moment it said, “You're breaking my heart, but I suppose this is enough bonding for awhile. Oh, well. I think I've just the thing. Walk through the door, Jack.”

Mirror-Jack sidestepped, suddenly revealing the black door, the same one Jack seen dozens of times. The young Guardian stood rooted in place, the trickle of dread becoming a flood. _I've seen this before,_ he thought. He knew he did. But as he racked his brain for a memory of what lay beyond it, all he saw was blank. It was as if the fear cramping his belly was memory-fear, his body reacting to what his mind clearly forgot. 

“Why should I?” he asked, but notice then his reflection was gone. There was nothing else on the lake but himself and the door. His throat worked. _I have to get through it to wake up. You can do this._ Jack inched his way to its wooden frame, hand outstretched as if towards a ravenous lion, fingers curled away. Before he could turn the brass knob it swung open, and Jack saw the terrible silence of a dead, frozen world, and knew without doubt he was the cause. 

He woke up. Not laughing, but screaming. 

 

…

 

_TBC_


	6. vi

Jamie thought he was dreaming when he looked outside his window and saw Jack Frost standing on the backyard fence. 

It was a hunger, cold-induced delirium, a tantalizing pull of his mind as he struggled to come to terms with what was happening. Since the generator ran out of gasoline two weeks ago and the food spoiled in the fridge, it was becoming harder to remember what a full stomach and a hot shower felt like. Without electricity to run the oil furnace, Jamie could sometimes see his breath when he exhaled. It curled in the air as delicate as a flower's veins, unfurling into the blue darkness of his room before dissipating into nothing. At first he and Sophie had treated it as a game, something to laugh at. Neither were laughing now, too cold and hungry to dredge up the enthusiasm or optimism to see the humor. This was no longer a silly prank, a get-out-of-school-free card. They mostly huddled under covers and blankets, too cold and irritable to move, fingers stiff and sluggish. Plow trucks no longer rumbled on the streets. Gas stations were inaccessible. Non-perishable food was becoming scarce. Their father and mother had braved the cold and snow to walk to the supermarket half a mile away. Sometimes it took them all day to come back. Without trucks to resupply to stores, who knew how long before food shortages became an issue. 

That was why when Jamie first saw the Guardian of Fun, he didn't react. His breath fogged the window as he stood there and sighed, the tip of his nose touching the ice-chilled glass. If this was a dream, it was a very real one; Jack appeared as he always did, his blue-frosted hoodie rippling whenever a wind buffeted him, staff a dark fixture against the shock-white background. The longer Jamie stared, the more he realized this couldn't be a dream. His eyebrows rose. His chest collapsed, clenching into an inescapable coil of hope so tight for a second he forgot how to breathe. The next instant he was tearing downstairs, flinging off covers and blankets and nearly bowling his sister over in his haste to throw his winter clothes on. Sophie was still snarling at him when he tore the door open and rushed outside. 

A gray blizzard met him. Within seconds the wind cut through the flimsy layers of his coat and snapped at his exposed skin. Jamie wrapped the scarf tighter around his face as he trudged through the waist-deep snow, shouldering through the howling gusts with grim, dogged persistence. The snow was an unpleasant shock against his jeans; in his haste he'd forgotten to put on snow pants. His ears were already beginning to hurt beneath this hat, but none of it mattered. 

“Jack! _Jack!_ ”

At first Jamie thought the storm's roaring had stolen the words from his mouth, but then he saw Jack turn his head. Jamie felt a spontaneous smile pull across his face. He began to wave, hollering. Jack seemed to shake awake, the strange, blank expression snapping into a twitchy, bewildered one. Recognition glittered in the dark eyes but Jamie saw none of the customary happiness light the pale face. Jack turned sharply in place, reminding Jamie of someone waking from a daydream. The thought was strangely disturbing. 

Finally Jack stopped his semi-frenzied circling and hopped down from the fence to land in front of Jamie. Despite the softness of the snow the Guardian didn't break the surface, remaining on top as if he weighed nothing at all. 

“Jack! Boy, am I glad to see you,” Jamie said, almost laughing with relief. 

Jack crouched down without making it seem he was patronizing Jamie. They were roughly at eye-level, and Jamie realized then this was the first time in almost a month he'd seen his friend. Though there was nothing physical to give the boy the idea, for some reason he couldn't help but feel Jack had lost weight somehow, as if there was _less_ of him. Which was silly. Jack was right there in front of him, a hug-distance away. In his fantasies Jack had simply laughed and stopped the blizzard with a snap of his fingers. This Jack looked lost, not like a savior. Now the idea was a lot less comforting than Jamie had fantasied.

“What's wrong? What's happened?” Jamie asked. He swallowed. “Is it . . . is it Pitch?”

Jack blinked, his gaze still somewhat glazed but clearing fast. “What? No-no, it's not Pitch. It's . . . what day is it, Jamie?”

Jamie squinted and dug his mittened hands in his armpits. Jack didn't seem to notice Jamie's shivering, staring at the boy with a frown. 

“It's May twenty-sixth.”

Jack's face slackened with surprise. Jamie could almost feel Jack withdraw in himself, shrinking without moving a muscle. 

“Two weeks?” Jack murmured, almost too low to catch. “I was asleep for two weeks?”

It was hard to hear over the whistle and moan of the wind. Snowflakes stung Jamie's eyes and got caught in his lashes. “What? Jack, I can't hear you.”

Jack shook his head and said in a louder voice, “Nothing, Jamie. Just talking to myself.”

Jamie shivered and tried to keep his teeth from chattering. His legs were growing numb through his jeans. “What's happening? What's going on? Why are you making it snow?”

The strangest expression crossed Jack's face then, one Jamie had never seen. It was masked with difficulty, but for a single moment, stricken horror blanketed the pale face. Then it was gone, but Jamie couldn't forget it. Jack was terrified, and seeing terror on his protector's face filled Jamie with a cold more biting than the blizzard howling about him. Suddenly the disquiet that had been nursing in his chest since the first initial snowfall became real. Whatever what happening was scaring the hell out of Jack.

“I don't know, Jamie,” Jack said. The Guardian coughed and cleared his throat, his tongue licking his lips in nervous passes. “I'm, uh, I'm going to find that out.”

“Jack, you're scaring me.”

Jack flinched as if struck. When he reached out and touched Jamie's arm, the boy realized his friend's chilled skin was the same temperature as the snowstorm. 

“Oh, no, no, no, no, please, don't be scared. I don't want to scare you.” Jack tried to smile. “That's Pitch's job, remember?”

“Then stop making it snow. Please. We're running out of food, and my mom says the store won't be stocked for very much longer.”

Jack grimaced again, miserable. “I can't.”

“What?”

“I can't stop the storm.”

Jamie stared at the other's discomfort, frowning. “What do you mean? You're Jack Frost, the spirit of winter. Can't you just, just, I dunno, wave your stick around?”

If possible, Jack grew more agitated. He bounced on the balls of his feet, wincing and baring his teeth as if in acute pain. Then the Guardian went still and frozen, staring hard into the boy's face. The dim, animal part of Jamie wanted to look away, to avoid such a direct stare, but something made him stare back, transfixed. He couldn't look away even if he wanted to. He was close enough to see the fractal splatter of Jack's irises as the pupils dilated and constricted. 

“You know I'd do nothing to intentionally hurt you, right?” Jack said, and despite the storm's howling, Jamie heard him perfectly well. It struck Jamie odd Jack used the word _intentionally,_ but the significance of the adverb was lost on him. 

“I know that. Why are you—” 

“Do you trust me?”

“Jack—”

“ _Do you trust me._ ”

The intensity was frightening. “With my life,” Jamie said, meaning every word. He said it to sooth Jack, but for some inexorable reason, it seemed to cause the other pain. 

“Then trust me when I say I'll do everything in my power to stop this,” Jack said. 

“Let me help you,” Jamie said, but the Guardian was already shaking his head. 

“This is something I need to do alone, Jamie.”

Jamie blinked. “Alone? What do you mean, 'alone'? What about the Tooth Fairy and Santa and the others? Aren't they going to help you too?”

The blank look Jack gave Jamie was more alarming than the earlier flash of panic. It was closed off, alien on the normally expressive, chuckling face. It was like gazing at a stranger. For the first time in a long time, it reminded Jamie Jack wasn't like the rest of his friends. He was the embodiment of winter, a mythical spirit, a creature that by all rights shouldn't even exist. Jack may've started out human, but he was far beyond that now. Jamie was no longer the young, star-eyed kid Jack befriended five years ago. He was older now, old enough to finally acknowledge the rift separating their natures. Jamie shifted, trying to dislodge the strange unhappiness curdling in his stomach. His childish youth made him yearn for the simple days of snowball fights and daydreams, but his budding wisdom whispered things were changing, that they weren't as they seemed, and whatever this snowstorm was, Jack had a part in it. 

“Yeah. Yeah, of course, that's what I meant,” Jack said, and Jamie knew then his friend was lying to him. 

Jamie covered his discomfort by trying to smile, but his mouth was becoming numb. “Well, go ki-kick some buh-butt,” he said, struggling not to slur. It was growing harder to formulate his words. His fingers were on fire.

“You betcha, kidd—Jamie. I promise I'll be back after all this is over, I promise. Hang in there. Now get back inside; you're shaking worse than a leaf.”

With one last strained smile, Jack launched himself in the air and disappeared. The swirl of whipping snow in his wake sent Jamie covering his face with a forearm. The wind shrieked, as if angry at Jack's departure. It seemed to seethe on itself, coiling, preparing for a harsher assault. For a moment Jamie could only stand there, unable to move as the world became a whiteout. 

“ _Jamie!_ What are you doing out there?” It was his mother. “Get back inside this instant, mister!”

Jamie was too cold and miserable to retort. He forced his freezing legs into motion as he trudged back to the open door, finding the trip back longer and harder than he'd remembered. 

 

.

 

.s.

 

.

 

As Jack flew away he couldn't help shake the unmistakable feeling he'd never see Jamie again. One minute he was in Pitch's lair, screaming, then the next he was in Jamie's backyard without a single recollection on how he got there. Jamie was there, his mouth moving but no sound coming out, as if Jack was seeing him on a movie screen with the volume muted. He felt a piece of himself was still in Pitch's cave, irreparably lost. 

Two weeks. 

He'd been asleep for two weeks. 

The was beyond any of all the other times, yet he couldn't understand how such a short conversation with his 'self' could've lasted half a month. For the first time in five years the familiar shapeless panic cramped his stomach, only now it was worse than any pain he'd ever experienced. In those five years he had finally felt true joy. Happiness. Friendship. He had a _purpose,_ a _direction_. Having it all ripped from his fingers was crueler than the three hundred years of isolation the Moon had subjected him to. The betrayal was too hot and razor-thin to touch, as blinding as sun's glare on snow. He shied away from its enormity, unable to acknowledge its brutal truth. There was a breathlessness to his every movement, as if not matter how hard he gasped, he still couldn't catch his breath. 

He couldn't face the others. He wouldn't tell them. He couldn't. He couldn't stand imagining the look of triumph on Bunnymund's face when he found out, or the horror on the others'. Maybe if he went far away where no one lived, maybe he could buy Jamie some time. He flew without direction, sick with confusion. What could he tell them? He had to figure something out, had to sit down and think this through. He had to find a way to stop the power of winter from covering the earth and destroy everything he'd grown to love. But how? How could he stop such a vital, defining part of himself?

Time. 

He had to buy the world time. 

When Jack finally grew aware of his surroundings, he realized he'd flown across the breadth of the country. He was soaring over a mountain range as treacherous and beautiful as a wolf's snarling muzzle, some tips completely obscured in thick misty clouds. Below him he could sometimes spy glacier-gray rivers at the bed of ravines, winding and massive like great placid snakes. It was snowing here, but at a steadier, more sedate pace. It was colder, but Jack was no stranger to cold. It took a moment to orient himself, but at last he understood he was in the heart of the Canadian Rockies. _At least it's supposed to be cold here,_ he thought bitterly. He dipped lower, loosening his grip on the winds. He drifted down. The jagged landscape reared to greet him, and soon Jack landed in the centre of an unusual ravine. 

Within seconds a hush enveloped him. Despite the falling snow eddying about him, it felt strangely still and quiet, as if he were the only living creature for hundreds of miles. A gray mist hugged the massive rocks all around him, creating a strange vacuum of sound. Jack turned in place, unable to help but feel he was in the jaws of some ancient beast long dead. The ground was completely level, almost as level as a frozen lake's surface. The flat light made it difficult to discern any dips or crevices, but the young Guardian didn't worry about that. This would be the prefect place to think and regroup. 

“Humans call this place the Titan's Maw.” 

Jack spun around, staff high, terrified it was his reflection and he was dreaming again. He wasn't. Pitch glided towards him with the unperturbed ease of a tourist perusing a museum, sleek and deadly. Then his gaze snapped to Jack, as if noticing the young Guardian for the first time. Pitch smiled a disconcerting smile that didn't reach his eyes. “Aptly named, wouldn't you agree?”

“Pitch.” Jack half-rose from his crouch, scowling, still trying to recover from his fright. He didn't bother hiding his displeasure. 

“I'll admit, I haven't felt such exquisite terror in awhile.” Pitch stopped some distance away, hands hidden behind his back, standing as still as the chilly air. He was slender in the gray, featureless light, edges sharp at the shoulders and hair but softening below his hips. He was nearly transparent where robe met snowy ground, as if he were a shadow cast by some imaginary object. His eyes were half-lidded, the calm never wavering, the eerie, disconnected smile still lingering on the charcoal lips. “I would be lying if I said I wasn't attracted to it, so imagine my surprise when I discover it's you who's releasing such lovely fear.”

“Cut the crap, Pitch. What do you want,” Jack said, but Pitch continued as if he hadn't been interrupted. 

“Where does all that pain and fear comes from, I imagine. Don't bother hiding it, _Jack_ ; you reek of it, squirming like a worm at the end of a hook.” The eyes glinted madly, reflective despite the flat light. “I know why you're afraid.”

“Tell me,” Jack said, and had he said it any more softly, it would've been lost. He couldn't tear his eyes away from Pitch's luminous ones, riveted. 

“You're asking yourself why the Moon would give you everything you've ever dreamed of only to take it away. Why give you a glimmer, a _taste,_ ” Pitch said, hissing the word like a snake, rolling it in his mouth in a strangely obscene gesture, “only to snatch it from you. The others are only starting to see it, but you've always knew the particular brand of cruelty my old friend possessed. Five years of happiness may've taken the sting out of three hundred miserable ones, but you remember now, don't you. It's all coming back. Remember what betrayal feels like, Jack? To feel everything you've ever loved ripped from you?” Pitch paused to compose himself, gray tongue quickly passing over lips like a cat licking itself calm. “Beautiful, isn't it.”

Jack's shuttered, heavy breathing filled the emptiness between them, ringing against the Titan's rocky jaws. Throughout it all Pitch hadn't moved an inch but it felt as if he'd squeezed all the air from the ravine, leaving nothing for Jack. 

“Why?” Jack said. “Why did, why did he choose me? Why would he _do that_.”

Pitch shrugged with cutting dismissiveness, head twitching to the side. “Why not? Ice will cover the world, Jack, one way or another, now or in a millennium. You just happen to be the chosen vessel.” 

“You knew,” Jack said, realization dawning. “You knew I was the one that would end—” He couldn't bring himself to finish, the aborted sentence hanging in the air like a hangman's noose. He shook his head with a violent shake. “ _How,_ ” he tried again, shoving all of his anger and bewilderment in that one strangled exhale. The betrayal he'd kept damed up throbbed behind his eyelids, a solid pressure at his back. It was as enormous as a lake's frozen expanse, as muffling as the blackness around it. “How did you know?”

“I had my suspicions,” Pitch said quietly, his metal gaze at once cold and excited. They bore into Jack like fishhooks. His gaze was unblinking, peering at the young Guardian as if he were the most fascinated thing in the world. “Back at the cliffs. After the Moon told me he was dying. Now it's confirmed.” 

The Boogeyman fell quiet, still unmoving, still frozen like a block of onyx, the amber of his metallic eyes sharp and piercing, still looking at Jack a lion would a wounded gazelle. 

Jack returned his stare. He felt emptier now, his thoughts clearer. The pain was still there but it felt miles away, easier to ignore. The memory of the Moon's _forgive me forgive me forgive me_ caressed his mind like the rasp of a cat's tongue, at once unpleasant and soothing. 

“All things are finite in nature.” Something in the Nightmare King's tone signaled he was done playing cat-and-mouse. Its sharpness cracked the air like a whip, imperious. “But I won't accept the end is now.”

Jack bowed his head slightly. He stood very still. “You've come to stop me.”

Pitch seemed to tighten, the indolent complacency from before vanishing. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“Don't insult my intelligence,” Pitch said, stepping forward for the first time. Danger cracked in the air like the scent of ozone before a thunderstorm. “I'm not doing this for you, or for the Guardians, or even for your precious human friends. This is for me.”

Jack chuffed softly, too tired to laugh. 

Pitch's unnerving stare turned flat and chilly. “Something amusing?”

Jack chuckled again, slowly shaking his head, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I get it. I get it now.”

Pitch smiled with his gray, uneven teeth. It was a sphynx's smile, sweetly promising an end if the riddle's answer failed. “And what do you get?”

“You pretend to act all tough, pretend you're above fear, but you're not. You're afraid too.”

“Oh?” That faint, disconnected smile returned. “And what am I afraid of, Jack Frost?”

“I was going to ask you awhile ago if you knew how to save the Moon, but now I realize you don't know. You know exactly what will happen to you if I destroy this world. You, and everything in it, will end. I've seen it, you know.” Jack looked past Pitch's shoulder, past the flat expanse of snow, past the towering boulders that made up the Titan's jaws. His throat worked convulsively, because he could see it even now. He didn't need the door anymore to see the silence of a frozen, dead world. It was behind his eyes, in his thoughts, under his skin, and as he stared into the abyss of his own mind, he understood then Pitch was no more dangerous than a sad, cornered animal with a wrinkled and lathered muzzle, its gleaming eyes filled with the dim hatred of the caged. 

“You're afraid to die.”

For a moment the Boogeyman said nothing, dark face inscrutable, the silence filling with the sound of snowfall. He lowered his head, mimicking Jack's earlier bow. It felt like mockery, but at the same time, it was the closest thing to civility Jack had ever witnessed from the dark spirit. Then moment was gone, and whatever passed between them was lost as Pitch began to stalk forward with the lithe, sleek movements of a predator, his singular attention turning deadly. Jack recalled with no small amount of pain what had happened in Antarctica; he backed slowly, trying to maintain the distance between them. Pitch smiled indulgently, never ceasing from his unrelenting advance. 

_Bastard's enjoying this_ , Jack thought bitterly. “I'm warning you, stay away from me.”

Pitch laughed. “Really.”

“I'm serious, Pitch. I'm dangerous.”

Like a switch the Boogeyman's smile disappeared and a frightening intensity took over. In a breathtakingly swift move he slammed his hand around Jack's throat and lifted him up as if he weighed no more than a paper skeleton. Jack scrabbled at the iron grasp as Pitch hissed,

“So am I.”

 

…

 

_TBC_


	7. vii

Jack Frost was many, many things, but as he dangled in the Boogeyman's grasp, he realized afraid wasn't one of them. A curious emptiness came to him instead, a strange lack of panic that surprised more than disturbed him. He looked at Pitch as if miles away, impartial enough to see the other wasn't messing around. There was was an unreadability to the dark face, eyes expressionless; there was no enjoyment in them, but neither was there regret. Jack saw the Boogeyman cock his other fist back, black sand coalescing around it to form a blade. _Just like Sandy,_ Jack thought, still curiously detached. He was used to this, wasn't he. He'd been slowly losing control of his body for weeks now; this would just be another surrender, just another throttle of his existence. Sandy had died once, just as the Moon was dying now. Pitch could do it. The others wouldn't've understood. 

He just needed to let go. 

It would be best for everyone. 

Let go.

Jack was fully prepared to let Pitch do it. That was why he blinked, shocked, when his own hand suddenly caught Pitch's fist in mid-swing, arresting the blade inches from his chest. With a strength he didn't know he had he wrenched it back almost ninety degrees. The effect was instantaneous: Pitch released Jack with a shout and the young Guardian dropped to the ground. He rubbed his throat, coughing at the prickly-burr sensation. Pitch become a whirlwind of sand, but Jack dodged the new attacks with a swiftness he had barely imitated before. _What the hell?_

He felt the malignant, familiar presence like a pressure. Within seconds he felt _shoved_ , as if he was nothing but an unwelcome guest, outside his body. It screamed of wrongness, so much so Jack panicked, clawing for traction. This was hisbody, his life. He tried to fight, digging his heels in the snow, fighting not to move. Cords stood in his neck as he fought for control. 

“Stop!” Jack shouted, or at least, tried to. It was hard to speak with his mouth refusing to cooperate. 

_And let the Boogeyman kill us?_ It was that voice again, that hideously gleeful one. It was chiding now, disappointed. Jack inwardly groaned as it continued, _I don't think so. I saw what you were trying to do there, and I have to say we're of differing opinions._

Jack bore down on the wry voice, gritting his teeth as he struggled to regain mastery of his body. He grunted as a blast of black sand bowled him over, within seconds losing all sense in his extremities. He skidded several feet away, rolling over and over until he at last tumbled to a stop, feeling like his head was caving in. There were several points of pain littered across his body, flaring as he made a move to stand up. He groaned. Sand came again, and again he crashed to the ground. Sky and earth melded together. Even the rocks forming the Titan's Maw gave no clue of direction, each end fading into the whiteness. His staff was some distance away, sticking out of the snow like a stripped flag. Jack found himself leaping towards it, hands that were hisbut inexplicably not. He managed in time to avoid another attack, leaping into the _sky? ground?_ as the whistle of the scythe hummed in the air, missing his head by hairsbreadths. He began to laugh. It wasn't his laughter. Jack champed down on it, forcing his jaws close, unaware that his face took on a rictus grin. 

_Stop fighting, Jack._ The words were smooth, oily, slipping between his ears with a snake's glide. It sang with a harp's liquid melody. _Relax. Let me do the work._

Jack's grip on his body slipped, unable to withstand the promise _everything's going to be okay_ his heart yearned for. He was no match. He began to drift again, once more taking on the role of detached onlooker as his magic took over. Speed returned to his limbs. He avoided Pitch's next attack with more ease, twisting in mid-leap with the easy grace of an athlete. He had enough time to counterattack, lashing a wave of freezing, high-pressured air. Pitch dodged with quicksilver agility, but there was less margin now, less time for him to regroup. Jack pressed, hurling ice spear after ice spear, zooming like a bullet, skidding, switching directions, feinting. If Pitch was surprised at the sudden swiftness, Jack couldn't tell. The usual taunts were absent, dark face wrapped in a stony, almost gritty silence. The Nightmare King wasn't pulling his punches, either. Several times Jack thought for sure, _this time, this time,_ the corrupted blades would find his heart. But his body was clever. It darted out of harm's way, still grinning its madcap grin. _It's not me, Pitch,_ Jack wanted to say, wanted to _explain_ , but his mouth and vocal cords weren't his own anymore. He was mute, empty, detached. Throttled. 

The snow was starting fall horizontally, the once nonexistent wind now whipping through the place humans called Titan's Maw. Pitch's eyes were slits, mouth equally thin as he tried again and again to land a blow. The Boogeyman had been holding back during their confrontation in Antarctica. He was faster than Jack thought possible, a whizzing black shape of murderous intent, charcoal form there one moment and gone the next. The fight had escalated to the point of blurs, each almost too fast to see, reminding Jack of those video games Jamie was so fond of. He wondered how many wounds would be necessary to kill his body. A nick? A full stab? A slice? Would it hurt?

 _Suicide is not an option, dear,_ the thing controlling his body said. Its tone had morphed from soothing to casual, almost bored, rolling the endearment like a bone between teeth. Jack could almost imagine his mirror-self rolling its irisless eyes. _I'm a little surprised you even thought of it. Didn't expect I'd drop by, did you? Surprise!_

 _Go away,_ Jack said. _I can't let you do this._

_You can, and you will. You don't want to die, not really._

Was Pitch slowing? No. Jack was growing faster.

Jack watched as his body slipped past the other's defenses and deep within Pitch's personal space. The Boogeyman tried scrambling for distance, metal eyes flaring wide. Jack grabbed a dark, thin wrist and within seconds Pitch was hissing in pain, the charcoal skin turning brittle with ice. The Boogeyman tried to wrench his arm back and break free, but he wasn't fighting Jack Frost. The creature holding him captive was winter, this was the beast of the storm, and it was vastly enjoying itself too much to let go. Jack's cheeks strained as a ferocious smile almost split his face in two. He tightened his grip to the point his knuckles whitened; on any other creature the wrist bones would've crumbled to dust. The Nightmare King was forced to his knees. The wind was howling now, snow whipping about like a snarling animal. 

Pitch swung his other fist up for a stab. Jack caught it and arrested it in place, punishing. Aside from the grimace of the Boogeyman's lips and the tightness around his eyes, he gave no other sign of pain. Jack could feel the first stirrings of annoyance from his mirror-self as the haughtiness never left the Boogeyman; even on his knees Pitch had the look of cool disdain. Jack relished the spike of irritation coursing through his reflection. His magic increased the cold. Ice now covered the dark forearms, crawling forward millimeter by millimeter. Pitch began actively struggling, throwing his body right and left, legs kicking. Aside from a few low grunts, he was silent. He tried sweeping Jack's legs from underneath, but Jack was too clever. He leapt up and planted both feet on the narrow chest, throwing the other on his back. The young Guardian rolled with the fall but remained upright. He remained perched on Pitch's torso, resting on his haunches, still holding Pitch's wrists captive. The Boogeyman was breathing hard now; Jack could feel the other's tremors beneath his soles. 

Jack leaned down, gaze searching the other's face as if trying to discern a secret code. It was like staring at a stone wall, its blankness disconcerting. The eyes were as if dead already, unblinking. Except, instead of staring into space like a corpse's would, they were latched onto Jack's, dizzying in their singular focus. They followed every move the Guardian made. Jack snapped his teeth inches from Pitch's nose as if he were a wolf. The other never flinched. 

His reflection scoffed. _No fun. Is he always this boring?_

 _You're going to kill him,_ Jack suddenly said. 

A snort-turned-giggle. _That's the plan, yeah._

_No. No, you're not._

_What? Oh, don't be difficult—_

But Jack was going to be difficult. Throughout the fight he'd been content to ride passenger to his body, unable to dredge up the will to fight his mirrored self. He had hoped Pitch would land a lucky shot and kill him, but the dark spirit failed. 

_Oh, you were playing so nicely before! Doing so well. What's the sudden change of heart?_

_You're not going to kill him,_ Jack said again. 

The coy humor vanished. _Is that so?_

Jack was already making his move. He began to thrash, trying to force his way back into his body.

 _Why?_ The voice was alien now, as cold as the heart of winter, where nothing lived, or could live. _The Boogeyman knows nothing. He cannot not help you in this._

Jack said nothing. When he sensed his magic preparing itself to send an ice spear through Pitch's throat, he fought with everything he had to stop the tide of cold, struggling as the Nightmare King had not moments ago, twisting and kicking.

_He will continue trying to kill us._

_Let go! Give me my body back!_

_I was trying to be polite, but if you're so eager on being rude, I'll be more than happy to keep you asleep next time. Would you like that? That would keep you meek and docile. How bout that, eh? Keep you adrift in limbo. I'll do it. Don't think I won't._

Jack's struggles intensified to the point of frantic. No. He couldn't go back there again, not that lake. Fighting his magic was like trying to shove a boulder covered in grease, and soon there was a terrifying moment where he thought he would fail. He couldn't fade like that. He couldn't. Perhaps his magic wasn't yet strong enough to fully possess his body. Perhaps the fight with Pitch had weakened it. Maybe it was just biding its time, because for whatever reason, the resistance suddenly gave. Jack found himself in full possession of his body, the god-like power gone. After a moment of disorientation, he realized he was still crouched atop the Boogeyman's chest, still holding the gray wrists. It was Jack now who was breathing hard, eyes wide. His eyes grew bigger. 

“Oh!”

Jack released Pitch as if scorched, scrambling back so fast he tripped over his own feet. He snapped his staff up where it had fallen and retreated a few more steps. The whirlwind of snow ceased. Big fat snowflakes fell at a sedate pace, covering everything in a thick, muffling blanket. Pitch took his time getting up, rising as if sore, gathering himself up in a somewhat stiff collection of limbs. 

“I'm too late,” Pitch said quietly, almost too soft to hear.

“What?”

Metallic eyes, washed-out in the flat, gray light, flicked to him. In a sharper voice, the Boogeyman said, “It's clear your magic is stronger than I'd anticipated.” His mouth twisted in a sneer. “It'll be only a matter of time before it consumes you.”

Jack tried to bite down a surge of anger. His cheeks warmed with it as he said, “Uh, who kept it from shoving a spear down your throat?”

“Spare me your misguided pity.” Pitch made a show of brushing the snow from his arms and shoulders, but something was wrong with his hands. They were stiff and awkward, not at all possessing their casual grace and fluidity. Jack realized then he could see angry bruises circling the Boogeyman's wrists. They were fingerprints, his fingerprints, burned into the skin, black as necrotic tissue. Jack's jaw tightened at the sight.

“Hey! I stopped it from killing you, okay? A little gratitude would be nice.”

Pitch's strange, weightless eyes stared at him, gleaming like reflective coins. “You're only prolonging the inevitable, _Jack_ ,” he said, curling his lip at the Guardian's name as if it swallowing something unpleasant. “You think you're doing me a favor? You're not. Next time, just let it kill me.”

Jack shook his head. “Wait, wait, hold on. I thought you didn't want to die.”

Pitch bared his uneven teeth in a snarl, nose wrinkling. “ _Think,_ you fool. It's a choice between dying quickly or slowly; I shouldn't even have to spell it out for you.” He took a step forward. Jack backed one up, half-heartedly raising his staff's crook. The dark spirit hesitated. He seemed almost petulant, sullen, as if Jack had taken his favorite toy away. 

“I won't attack again. I'm no match for you at this point.” He peered at him, forehead wrinkling. “You should let me kill you. It would be better for everyone.” 

Jack felt his stomach drop and the anger, simmering before, spiked. This time he raised his staff in a more deliberate threat. “Think I don't know that? You really think I don't know that?”

“Put that away,” Pitch said, angling his body in deflection, grimacing. He rubbed his forearms together. “I said I won't hurt you.”

Jack's mouth twisted, ears burning, but he lowered his staff down anyway. He turned on his heel, fully prepared to leave. He didn't know where else he could go, but storming off felt good. Maybe he would go to Antarctica next. Maybe fly to the Moon and hope his magic's influence didn't extend that far. Somehow he doubted it. He was trapped, hemmed in, his own power _that the Moon gave him_ acting as his jailor. There was nowhere safe he could turn to, and his last hope had only blunt claws. 

“Do you even know what's going to happen?” Pitch said. He was following Jack. 

The young Guardian whirled around, teeth bared. He spread his arms out. “I suffer outer-body crises as I watch the destruction of everything I love in the world? The death of all my friends? How bout that. Does that just about cover it?” 

“You're forgetting one very important point,” Pitch said. He glided forward with an unhurried, measured pace, stopping when there was still a healthy distance between them. He leaned forward, looking down his long nose at the Guardian. “You.”

 _I should just leave,_ Jack thought. He didn't need salt in his wounds. Pitch was just trying to hurt him. But he couldn't move. Some morbid fascination kept him rooted to the ground, perhaps hoping beyond hopes some kernel of truth would appear and save the day. 

“Me? What about me.”

“Those three hundred years of solitude will pale in comparison to what's in store. Do you think you'll just disappear once your magic is through with you? You won't.”

Jack said nothing, furious with himself for hearing this, hating Pitch, hating the dread in his core. He didn't want to hear this, but found himself transfixed in place. 

“Maybe after a century or two you'll sleep to forget. Maybe in another thousand you'll go insane.” Pitch sniffed, straightening. “I myself will linger for awhile,” he said, withdrawing in himself. He suddenly seemed smaller, softer around the edges, and when he met Jack's gaze again, it was resentful, the same look a wolf would shoot a steel bear trap. “Unlike your Guardian friends, I follow a somewhat different rule set. But eventually I, too, will fade to nothing.” Pitch fell quiet, pensive.

“If I survive this, I'm gonna kill the Moon,” Jack said. He found he was shaking, not with cold, but fury. What Pitch described so callously sounded like hell. “I'm so done with the crap he's put me through.”

“It's not personal, Jack. You're a tool, nothing more,” Pitch began, but Jack was already stamping a foot.

“It _is_ personal, don't you get it? Why did he—why would he give me—” Jack clamped his jaw shut, shaking, too apoplectic to speak. Too many words wanted to spill out, emotions that had no place in his chest spilling over like a torrent. He tried again, breathless and so furious he could hardly see straight. “He never should've saved me. He should've left me dead in the water! I wish he never gave me this! I hate—” Suddenly everything left him. Jack felt an unnatural calm, his body relaxing from the enormity of his realization. “I hate him so much.” 

“Yes. I suppose you would,” Pitch said, not gently, without inflection. He stood appraising, gauging with those pale, metal eyes. There was no pity in them, no commiseration; they did not belong to any of his friends'. Yet something else slipped from Jack, something that had clamped down on his lungs. Without the crippling weight of sympathy his breathing slowed, evened. His shaking eased. He couldn't face his friends; this he could stand. 

Jack could see it, then, could see it so clearly. This was Antarctica but inexplicably different. The others wouldn't understand the strange kinship that existed between him and the imperious Nightmare King. They never would. The end would come and they would still wonder why the Moon hadn't spoken to them. But Jack understood. He knew why the Moon would hold dialogue with Pitch instead of the Guardians: Pitch was a creature of the darkness, cut from the same ancient cloth as the Moon. Both uncountably old, both cruel in their own way, both existing in the beginning, two sides of the same coin. Jack, too, was no stranger to cruelty. As it turned out, he himself was a monster: who knew he'd be the vessel responsible for the destruction of everything? _But who will I have?_ Jack thought bitterly. Would winter be his only hateful companion at the end? _Forgive me, Jack,_ the Moon had said. Jack wasn't in a forgiving mood now. 

As if reading his thoughts, Pitch said, “Haven't told your friends, then?”

Jack said nothing. It was answer enough. 

“No, I imagine you wouldn't. Quite a nasty shock it'd be for them. Did they suspect?” At Jack's continued stony silence, the dark creature chuckled. “I'm sure they've figured it out. Then they'll be like animals, each finding their own quiet place to die. Maybe I'll go pay them a visit,” he said, smiling without humor. In the strange, sunless light it was all teeth, the eyes utterly untouched. 

_Jamie,_ Jack thought in inexpressible misery. His jaw tightened and he swung a low glare Pitch's way. He lifted his chin. “And if I did? Die, I mean. What would happen?”

The Boogeyman spent a moment flexing and testing the dexterity of his fingers before replying. “My old friend would regain his power and wait to choose a new vessel. The cycle would restart.”

Jack frowned, desperate for that kernel of hope. “Wait—a cycle? What do you mean, 'cycle'?” 

At Pitch's flat stare and equally unimpressed silence, Jack licked dry lips. “Are you saying the world could restart itself once it ends?”

But the tall shadow remained silent, the frown lines on his forehead deepening with each passing second like a gathering storm. Jack wasn't in the mood for this. He clapped his hands. 

“Pitch! I need your help! Stop looking at me like that and answer me.”

“Your optimism is sickening. No, the world won't 'restart' once it ends; once it ends, that's it. The only way you can buy the world more time is to kill yourself,” Pitch snapped. “I can't do it; only you can.”

“How much time would I buy?”

The other scoffed. “Do I look like I know?”

Jack shook his head. “Even if I wanted to, my magic wouldn't let me.”

Pitch stared at him. Then looked away. “Thought as much.”

“Hey, it's not for lack of trying, I promise you.” This conversation was insane. They were talking about his suicide as if deciding the location of a new house. A hysterical laugh threatened to spill from his lips. He shoved it down. 

Pitch suddenly straightened, face smoothing into its familiar haughty, bored mask. Whatever he was thinking became well-hidden away. “Then we're done. I'm done. I've failed.” He dismissed Jack with a flick of his head before turning around and gliding away, lifting a casual hand to wave goodbye, as if they hadn't tried to kill each other five minutes ago. For a moment Jack could only stare, too surprised to react. Then it hit him. 

“Where are you going? Pitch!” _Don't leave me,_ he didn't, couldn't add. The Boogeyman seemed to hear it anyway. He looked over his shoulder and said,

“Like animals, Jack.” Then he faded to nothing, leaving no trace he'd been there. 

 

…

 

_TBC_


	8. viii

It was getting harder, North realized, to stay awake and alert. He'd closed his eyes for a minute—only a minute—and woke up hours later, slumped in the same armchair he plopped into for a second. There'd been a roaring fire when he'd sat down; now it was a glowing bed of embers. A cursory sweep told him he was alone, Yetis and elves curiously absent. The globe room was dark save for the red hearth. Cold stars glittered through the skylight; unlike the rest of the world, the Pole seemed the only place not covered in sweeping blizzards. North sighed through his nose, unwilling, or perhaps unable, to find the heart to leave the chair's plush comfort. His head felt stuffed with cotton, leaving him muzzy and slow-witted. If he'd been human he would've blamed his disorientation on the over-long nap, but he was a Guardian, a spirit beyond the limitations of an organic body. This was more nefarious. The tiredness seeping into his blood like a disease clutched at him with thick, clumsy hands, hands growing more insistent by the day. He hadn't realized searching for Jack Frost had worn him out this badly. When was the last time he rested? He couldn't remember. 

It'd been over two weeks since Jack vanished from the hallways, and North couldn't help but feel guilty. He could almost hear Tooth saying _It's not your fault, North_ in that sweet, bell-like voice of hers. His lips twitched in a fond smile, overcome with affection. She and Bunnymund were in the library the last time he checked, combing over that ancient green book Jack had found weeks earlier. Or maybe they were sleeping like he was, slowly but surely slipping into the final coma. Sandy was doing his Sandman duties and would be returning at dawn. Was it almost dawn now? North didn't have the heart to check. All he wanted to do was sit. Sit, and maybe drift off again. The hypnotic tinkling of the embers and brooding thoughts kept him arrested in place, somnolent. Perhaps he was too tired to care, because for whatever the reason, he didn't react when he smelled the faint, bitter aroma of an ancient, unmistakable aura of darkness. He didn't raise his eyes from the dying fire, but nodded just the same.

“Pitch.” 

The Nightmare King stopped in North's peripheral, hands clasped behind, chest dyed mauve from the embers. There was no other armchair by the hearth, but even if there was one vacant, North knew the Boogeyman would've ignored it. He supposed Pitch had sensed his fear and, like hungry weasel to the wounded rabbit, had come to investigate, but his belly told him the Boogeyman wasn't here for blood. The same instinct told him there was no need to stand as well. This wasn't a power play, and though they were alone, North felt a curious lack of fear for his wellbeing. He knew what the Boogeyman was capable of, but this wasn't one of those times. It'd been centuries since they spoke one-on-one. He turned his head to look at the lean creature properly. In the dim lighting it was hard to tell if what was happening to the Moon was affecting the dark spirit, but then again, Pitch always looked half-dead, the charcoal hollows around his eyes forever lending him a smokey, half-awake look. If nothing else, his lower half appeared more transparent than usual; Pitch was almost see-through where his robes touched the persian carpet. Ah. So he was feeling it. 

“It's Jack's fault, you know.” Pitch's voice was low and flat, not meant to carry. _If you send for others, I'm leaving._ He didn't elaborate, but North didn't need him to. Deep in his heart he knew. He had tried to give Jack the benefit of the doubt, but over the weeks, the Guardian realized his belly was trying to tell him that all along. The clues were so obvious now. Bunnymund, from the start, had been right. North sunk deeper in the chair, index finger stroking his upper lip in thought.

“Is it, now,” North said, equally as softly. _Let's talk alone, then._ “You know why?”

If Pitch had been expecting shock and horror, he was out of luck. The Boogeyman shifted without really moving, allowing North to see a flash of disappointment. 

“ _That_ is your beloved Moon's doing, I'm afraid,” Pitch said, turning his head to show a vindictive, mocking smile. His strange, half-mad eyes swept across North's face in hungry passes, no doubt searching for the horror he so clearly came to see. It was North's turn to feel disappointment, unable to help the twinge of remorse. Had circumstances been different, Pitch would've made a good Guardian, maybe even a great one. It was too late now—too late for a lot of things. Tooth's phantom _It's not your fault_ whispered again, but it lacked power. North did feel guilty, guilty he couldn't help Pitch become more than this warped, petty creature before him. 

“The Moon?”

Pitch scowled. “Did I stutter? Yes, I said the Moon. While you and the others were running yourselves ragged, my old friend was orchestrating the whole thing. How does it feel to be betrayed, North? Bitter in the mouth, isn't it.”

North shifted in the chair, hand tightening on one of the armrests. “Find your entertainments elsewhere, Pitch,” he said, but Pitch was chuckling, softly so only the Guardian could hear.

“Call your Yetis and I will,” the Boogeyman promised, but North was quiet, surprising himself. Perhaps the dark creature was surprised as well, and the chuckles stopped soon after. A lull stretched between them. _Peaceful_ was too kind a word to describe the state of their silence, but it was a far cry from antagonistic. 

“Do you know where Jack is?” North asked. He didn't know what he was expecting—it been so long since they had anything resembling a civil conversation, that when Pitch actually answered him, his eyebrows shot up. 

“I left him in the Titan's Maw in British Columbia.” 

North frowned. “'Left him'?”

The Boogeyman's voice returned to the flat, dispassionate tenor. “We fought. He won.” For the first time since their conversation began, Pitch brought one of his arms forward. In the soft, glowing light of the embers, North could see burn-like bruises encircling the gray wrist. As the wrist rotated, the Guardian understood he was seeing a handprint seared into Pitch's flesh. North's frown deepened. _We have a mutual enemy now,_ he thought, then winced. Despite what Pitch said, the Guardian couldn't see Jack as his enemy. Something else was at work here, something beyond Jack's control. The fingerprints circling Pitch's wrist proved it: there was no way the winter spirit was capable of such casual cruelty. 

“Jack will cover the world in ice,” Pitch said. He paused, mouth pursed. “Or rather, winter will. Jack's just the vessel.”

“Ah?” North perked up, the first stirrings of hope blooming in his ample chest. “Just the vessel? Well! Then we can—”

“Whatever you're thinking, it won't work,” Pitch said, his voice cold enough to cut North's legs from under him. The Boogeyman fully turned to face him, half alight, half fading into the darkness of the empty room. Only his eyes stood out with luminous clarity. “There is only one way to defeat winter, and I've already tried. And believe me—” his nose wrinkled in a snarl, “—if I failed, you most definitely will too.” 

“What you suggest we do?” North said.

Pitch held his gaze for a moment more before turning back to the dying fire, his profile a hard, aristocratic line. “Nothing.”

North was unable to help himself. He chuckled, earning him the brunt of an irritated glare. North waved it off. “There is always _something_ to do, Pitch,” he said. 

Pitch seemed to inflate, furious. “This isn't a _joke_ , North,” he spat, teeth bared. “This isn't a cute little problem you and your sycophant friends can fix. This is the end of world. The end. The big finish. Have you been outside? Everything is freezing. I have more fear to feed off of than I know what to do with, yet I grow no stronger. Been feeling sleepy, have you? It'll only get worse, until one day you'll drift off and never come back. Do you understand? You're _dying,_ you stupid oaf! All of you are!” 

Pitch's voice had risen to a strangled snarl. He froze, waiting to hear if his near-shouts had attracted Yetis, but there was no movement from the corridors. They were truly alone. 

“You're afraid,” North said, more surprised than he thought he'd be. 

“You are too,” Pitch said, but he was smarter now. His snarl was barely above a whisper, vicious and aimed straight for North's soft, vulnerable parts. 

“Of course I am,” the Guardian said. “But I trust Jack.”

Pitch blinked, wrinkles appearing across his forehead. 

“Man in Moon chose Jack for special reason,” North said, trying to gently explain to the friendless creature before him why, yes, he was scared, but not hopeless. “Maybe he chose Jack to end world, but I believe there is more to this. Jack will figure something out. I trust him.”

“Trust.” Disgust was marring Pitch's face. The disappointment was back ten-fold. “No wonder why you Guardians are so disillusioned. Tell me, is it wonderful in your little world? Must be so nice to bury your heads in the sand.”

“That's why I am Guardian, and you are Pitch,” North said, not unkindly. The Boogeyman stood still as if slapped. He then subsided like a gray storm at sea, countenance smoothing to a flat, still calm. He peered at North he would at a two-headed titmouse, fascinated only in the dullest sense, dimly repulsed.

“Did you know all humans are born with an unconscious urge to die? They even have a word for it: thanatos. A death-drive. I see you have it too.” Pitch chuckled again, but there was no humor in it, just a sullen bitterness. “Trust,” he muttered again, mouth wrinkling as if tasting something foul. “You would rely on _trust_ to save yourselves, like willing lambs to the slaughter. There is no saving you.”

“Maybe,” North said, sighing, too weary to take up arms. The Guardian felt rather than saw the Boogeyman's heavy regard, and couldn't help but smile behind his beard. “Maybe not. You should trust Jack too.”

There was no answer, but then again, North hadn't expected one. 

“North? Who are you talking to?”

The Guardian of Wonder glanced up to find Tooth emerging from the hallway, breast feathers catching the ember light like distant suns. Bunnymund strode in tow, furry face grim and haggard. North didn't have to look over his shoulder to know Pitch was gone. They came to a stop by his armchair, and at last North could see her eyes were bloodshot, as if she'd been crying. Or sleeping. Something tightened in the pit of North's belly. Whatever was happening to them, it was speeding up. The Moon's blue crystal was almost completely black now, eaten up by the strange illness. Who knew how much time any of them had left? Or Jack? North reached down and tossed a log on the hot coals. After a few moments little spurts of fire licked up, growing in confidence with each passing second. North couldn't help but feel an ominous sense of foreshadowing as he watched the flames devour the wood. 

“Pitch,” he said.

“Pitch?” Tooth's feathers instantly bristled. She hovered closer, hands curling into fists, wings _whirr_ ing. She looked about. “What's that creep doing here?”

“You alright?” Bunnymund stepped closer as well, fur highlighted a brilliant yellow from the hearth. His eyes were somber though, holding North's own with solemn intensity. “Is he—?”

“No, no. He's gone. He's found Jack.”

Tooth's face lit up. “Jack? He knows where Jack is?” 

“Should we even trust what he says?” Bunnymund said, cutting through Tooth's enthusiasm like an ice shard. He was still looking at North as if expecting to see blood gushing from hidden wounds. 

“Does it matter?” North said, rough and soft. 

A muscle worked in the Guardian of Hope's cheek, but said nothing. Out of all of them he'd been hit the hardest by the Moon's illness, and soon after Jack's disappearance he took on a grim, unapproachable aura. North had found him searching for to the point of collapse, and even then the giant rabbit had been recalcitrant to stop looking for their youngest member. 

North relayed what Pitch had said, skipping the more private topics. He didn't need to tell them everything. When he was finished, there was a moment of silence. Tooth chewed her lower lip. Instead of looking triumphant, Bunnymund remained grim and concerned. After hearing North's confirmation, he'd glanced away, looking towards the empty globe, perhaps the skylight. It would be dawn soon. Sandy would arrive any moment now, tired and grave. After a moment, Tooth cleared her throat. 

“What do we do now?” she asked. 

“Isn't it obvious?” Bunnymund said, lifting his chin. His voice was steady. “We go after the ruddy snowflake.”

North felt pride and, sweeter still, relief bloom in his chest. They understood what Pitch couldn't. Did that make them fools? Perhaps it did in some way. He nodded once, willing his lazy body out of the confines of the chair. There was still some strength in him yet. 

 

.

 

.s.

 

.

 

“It's inevitable, you know.”

Jack didn't respond when the cold hand gripped his shoulder in mock solidarity. Inside he was numb, as if winter itself had burrowed a hole in his chest in a way he'd never thought possible. During his three hundred years of solitude his magic completed him because he'd _understood_ it: he was Jack Frost, bringer of snow days and blizzards and snowball fights. It'd been simple. Easy. Now his power filled him with dread and fear and inexpressible anger. It was too cold, too callus towards the friends he'd grown to love over the five years. It held no comfort to him now. His disgust towards the Moon had not abated, but it paled in comparison to his loathing for his magic. It kept babbling, happy, taking the time to coo over Jack's silences as if to placate him. How could the Moon let this happen? _How?_

“—won't be that bad. In a century or two you'll forget them all. A couple of centuries after that, you'll grow to like it—”

Jack didn't know whether he was dreaming this or hallucinating. There was no lake this time, nothing to prove his body was in a coma while his magic wreaked unholy havoc upon the world. It was just him and his reflection. His mirrored self seemed washed-out and almost transparent in the flat, pale light, the eerie white eyes reflecting nothing. There was a stupid smile on its face, a cat full of bird hearts. They were miles above the earth, standing on tumultuous clouds swollen with snow. _In the storm's heart,_ Jack thought. All around them the wind pulled at his blue hoodie like a nipping animal. Curiously there was no sound aside his reflection's voice, as if something had muted the world to a dim, distant whitewash. 

“. . . honest, we're doing them a kindness. And by we, I mean me, but it's semantics at this point.”

Jack frowned, shaking as if waking from a dream. “What?”

His reflection waved a hand in a gesture of offhand carelessness, not even caring that it had to repeat itself. “Even if I had nothing to do with this, the humans would've brought the end to themselves one day anyway. I mean, have you been seeing the way they've been leaving the state of the world? Everything overheating, everything melting, everything dying off. Disgraceful, really.”

“Then let them. We don't need to be involved,” Jack said, but his voice was dull. He imagined he could see tiny houses under his feet, hundreds of miles away. He wondered if Jamie's was among them. His soul ached. Why did the Moon do this? Why now, why him?

His reflection chortled, reminding Jack it could read his thoughts. “You're crueler than I, Jack. What better way to die than freezing to death? Not that I would know, but I hear there's very little pain. Relatively speaking, of course. The humans seem obsessed with the world ending in fire. Boy, aren't they surprised now!”

 _The Moon chose me to be a Guardian,_ Jack thought. His mouth was very dry, his eyes burning. _It doesn't make any sense._

There was a sniff. The hand on his shoulder disappeared. “You still spouting that? You clutch that tighter than a baby its blanket. Let it _go,_ Jack; what's done is done. Anyway, you weren't even supposed to be a Guardian.”

Jack turned fully to face his mirrored self, a curious ringing in his ears. “Say that again.”

The first signs of irritation were peeking through the other's voice, hints of petulance that turned its smooth, rich tones sharp. His own face sneered back at him. “I said, he didn't. You were just supposed to be my home for a century or two. The whole 'Guardian' thing was by accident. Why do you think you were unseen for so long? Why the Moon didn't tell you anything else but your name? Don't you see? He _wanted_ you to remain apart. He _didn't_ want you to get involved. Things would've gotten messy.” It heaved a world-weary sigh too theatrical to anything but fake. “See? Now you're all confused and sad and conflicted. Should've stayed in your mountains, Jack.”

But Jack wasn't listening. Something was pounding in his head, and if he'd been mortal, he would've thought it his heartbeat. “What if I stop you,” he said. He speared his reflection with a stare Pitch would've been proud of. Instead of being insulted or alarmed, it chuckled. 

“Bigger flies than you have tried to stop me and failed, dear. Have to give credit to the Boogeyman: he really did try. The world _will_ end, Jack. Even if—and I'm not saying it will happen—you stop me, it won't be long before something else comes along. It'll be like slipping in a warm bath,” it said. “Really, I don't see what the fuss is all about.”

True, Pitch had failed. _But he had succeeded before, hadn't he._ In Antarctica. Jack went incredibly still, like a rabbit sensing the approach of the fox. The other didn't notice, cheerfully remarking on which town was already buried under snow and how many humans had died worldwide already. Places unaccustomed to the cold were being hit the hardest, it said. But Jack wasn't hearing a word. It went funny in his head, as if the vacuum of the lake had sucked everything out. Pitch hadn't succeeded this time, but maybe he could.

“No. You're wrong,” Jack said, cutting the other off short. 

It snorted. “Excuse me?”

“I _was_ supposed to be a Guardian. I know who I am—”

“You know nothing about yourself,” his reflection said coolly. “Look, are we going to have this fight every time I invite you to watch me work? Because this is annoying.” 

Like a striking snake Jack snatched the other's staff from its grasp. The thorns bit into his fingers and palm like hornet stings and he fought the instinct to let go as beads of blood welled up. He didn't dare drop it. He began to back away, belatedly realizing there was nowhere to turn to, nowhere to hide. His reflection blinked owlishly for a moment before smiling, all teeth. It followed him indulgently, unhurried, as if walking across a ballroom. It was disconcerting to see his own face peer at him as if Jack were nothing but an insect, a small, intriguing curiosity. 

“What are you doing, Jack? Trying to be a hero?”

“No, I'm not.” There was no easy way to hold the reflection's staff. He endured the pain as he did all others in his life, and found a rhythm to its glasslike stinging. “I just can't let you do this. Not now.” 

“Why don't you give that back.” 

“No, I don't I will,” Jack said, baring his teeth in an unconscious smile of his own. 

“What are you gonna do, Jack?” his mirrored self asked, all traces of complacency gone. Its bleach-white eyes bore into his own. All around them the winds began to snatch and rip at Jack's clothes, as if trying to tear them from his body. “Do you understand? _I am you._ Without me, you're nothing. _Yes,_ the Moon chose you to house _me,_ the destroyer of the world, and _no,_ it has nothing to do with you dying to save your sister. I'm surethat was all sad and good and it filled you with special feelings, but whoop-de-do. Welcome to reality, _Jack._ In this world, heroes aren't rewarded; they die like everyone else.”

In that moment Jack achieved a ground-shaking clarity he would never experience again, not even when he looked back on that moment in attempt to regain it. That's what the Moon chose him for, wasn't it? The ability for the ultimate sacrifice. _You knew all along._

Jack acted without thought, bringing the staff down across his knee as Pitch had once done, snapping it clean in two. Something screeched, like steel wires snapped in two, or someone being stabbed in the stomach again and again and again. He couldn't tell whether it came from himself or his reflection. 

_Jamie,_ he thought _._ Then the storm devoured him. 

 

…

 

_TBC_


	9. ix

**A.N** : And lo, the final chapter. Enjoy, enjoy, enjoy.

 

. 

 

 

“. . . reports are coming in that the freak storm is abating, I repeat, is abating. As you can see, the massive fronts are dissipating and returning to their normal patterns. I think kids everywhere—and adults, too—are seeing the first day of June as a very welcome sign. I don't know about you, Tim, but I'm certainly relieved.”

Jamie listened with half an ear to the weatherman as he and Sophie plastered their faces to the windows. It was one thing to hear it on the news, but seeing the robin's egg blue of the sky was another. He pinched himself twice before believing. Without wasting another moment he threw on whatever he could find—coonskin cap, bubble vest, boots—and rushed out the door. His friends were doing the same as he was, and in no time at all they gathered in Cupcake's yard, each dressed in slapdash fashion. A keen-eyed passerby would've noticed six kids huddled in a rough circle, had there been one. Adults were too busy staring out the windows or celebrating to notice the kids. 

None of the friends spoke: the moment was still too fresh, the recent second-winter still too raw. Each had lost weight, sporting a gauntness to their cheeks where none had been before. But all that was in the past, for as each looked up into the shining sun, they knew warm days were ahead. In the privacy of his own mind, Jamie thought about Jack. He replayed the last conversation they had, remembering how shaken and lost Jack seemed. All of that was gone. Whatever the Guardian did, it worked. Winter was over. 

But as hard as Jamie looked, Jack was nowhere to be found.

 

.

 

.s.

 

.

 

He was so cold his skin was on fire. He tried to move, to find relief, but someone had switched his limbs with blocks of cement. Moving hurt. Breathing hurt. Even thinking—if that molasses crawl of thoughts constituted as thinking—hurt. After awhile he gave up on all three, but the steady rise and fall of his chest continued long after he surrendered to the burning cold. After a time he became aware of shapes, which surprised him. He'd been sure he'd gone blind, as if he had peered straight into an incandescent light. Something hot dripped down his chin, but he was too numb to brush it off; even if he wanted to, he doubted his fingers could cooperate. He suffered quietly, unable to do anything else, listening to the slow drag of his lungs. 

He was fading away when he noticed a column of blackness somewhere in front of him. It was semi-transparent, like watered down ink. When he became aware of it he tried to get its attention, but moving his mouth was like chewing frozen caramel. His arms were dead. His soul had all the eagerness of a slaughtered horse because somewhere, deep in his chest, lay a terrible, aching pain. It prickled like a burr no matter how much he tried to call for aid, traveling from his throat to his hips to his ankles and back again, prickling at his insides with a thousand tiny claws. It made no difference if he remained still or tried to escape it. _Help,_ he thought, mouth disconnected to his brain, but by then he was already exhausted. Not that it mattered. The watered ink didn't move for so long he forgot about it, forgot to breathe, forgot even his name.

He drifted off, tired beyond all belief. 

 

.

 

.s.

 

.

 

There was no transition between unconsciousness and wakefulness. He became aware of himself in increments, the first and most obvious thing to do was stretch. He extended and flexed his feet, his anklebones giving tiny clicks. His legs became tangled in the sheets as they rustled all around _wait one minute_. 

Bed. 

He was in a _bed_. 

Sitting up was struggling with deadweight. By the time he'd slumped his back against the headboard, sweat beaded his—

Jack Frost recoiled, slamming his head against the headboard. He weathered the flare of pain with a hiss, toes curling as he waited it out. When it died down, he touched his hairline with trembling fingertips. They came back wet. He stared at them, mouth gaping. He carded a hand through his hair and pulled a strand out with a tiny pinch. It was as brown as autumn acorns, shimmering with the natural incandescence of a rainbow. 

Jack's throat worked convulsively. 

He didn't know how long he stayed in the bed, his thoughts slow and ponderous like the passage of clouds on a summers day, without direction or focus. It was no mystery where he was. The room screamed the Pole: every inch not a window was covered with tapestries, do-hickies, and gadgets collected over lifetimes. Daylight streamed in from giant stainglass windows in hazy rainbow beams. The bed itself was rich without being pretentious, roomy and plush. It was like sitting on a bed of fluff, and Jack fell asleep again without being aware of it. 

When he re-awoke, the room was ablaze with colour, the glass panes picking up the sunset. This time there was an uncomfortable pressure in his lower abdomen. His body remembered what to do what his mind clearly forgot as he got up, found what was clearly a washroom and, for the first time in over three hundred years, relieved himself. He did so as if in a dream, both faintly repulsed and fascinated. When he was finished he washed his hands in warm water, marveling at the joy the warmth gave him. As he did a strangle prickling chill crawled up his arms, as if hundreds of ants were tickling his skin. He pushed back his hoodie's sleeve and saw each hair standing as if electrified. 

He was still staring at the goosebumps when a hesitant knock broke through his daze. 

“Jack? You in there?” It was Tooth's voice, heavenly sweet to his ears. He couldn't believe how much he missed hearing it. 

“Uh, yeah. I'm coming out.”

Their faces didn't exactly drop, but there was no joy in them, either. Tooth touched her mouth. Sandy drifted to the ground, as if he forgot how to hover. North's eyes were wide, but they were glistening from an emotion besides disbelief. Bunnymund's ears were pinned low as he pushed his way to the front and stood in the front of Jack. Jack allowed the massive paws to give him a once-over, as if searching for hidden wounds. 

“How ya feelin?” Bunnymund asked, sounding as if he'd been chewing gravel. It matched his grim, unappeasable expression.

“Not exactly myself,” Jack said lightly, still feeling like he was in one of his dreams. It felt weird to clear his throat. “Do you mind if I sit down? Kinda tired here.”

“Oh, sure, sure.”

The pillows welcomed him as he leaned into their comforting embrace, still warm from his body heat. The Guardians stood around his bed without crowding, quiet. None of them knew quite how to start; only North seemed to take Jack's transformation in stride, but he made no move to speak. Jack took over. It was clear now what he had to do, and in slow, faltering tones he told them everything, starting with going to Pitch's lair, his conversation with his magic, seeing Jamie in the snowstorm, his flight to British Columbia, the fight with Pitch then with winter, everything. By the time he was done a heavy exhaustion pressed on his chest, but it was a clean one, a kind of sweet ache. His mouth was parched and gummy from talking, and it felt good to shut up. He accepted the goblet of water from Sandy with a small murmur of thanks. The following silence rang in Jack's ears, but he ignored it. The water was a cool balm on his tongue, silky smooth; he could almost feel it descend his esophagus, and shivered a little at that. 

“So, Man in Moon made you human,” North finally said, a strange crinkle in his eyes. 

“Maybe,” Jack allowed, shifting under the covers. “Didn't know how much of him was left; he was pretty far gone by the time winter crowed his victory song. Is the crystal. . .?”

“All normal,” North said, chest puffing. “Bluer than my own eyes, ha!”

“We'll figure something out,” Tooth said, voice huskier than normal. Though his tale had removed some of the horror from her face, most of it still remained in the hollows beneath her eyes. “We'll fix this.”

It took Jack all of two seconds to say, “I don't want this fixed.”

The silence was more thunderous this time. It also didn't last twice as long. 

“What? Ya'off your rocker?” It was Bunnymund, ears flattening. Hundreds of question marks cropped up above Sandy's head. 

Tooth hovered closer. “What do you mean?”

“Exactly as it sounds.”

“That's just—”

“No,” Jack said, shaking his head. The movement cost him more energy than he'd thought; he slumped against the pillows again, drained. “I mean, I'm done. Done with everything. Winter. The Moon. This.”

“Jack. You can't really mean that,” Tooth said, drawing back. 

Jack was already wincing before the hurt, astonished look stole upon on Tooth's face. “No, no, no, wait, I didn't mean, I—argh. Don't you see? I have a second chance,” he said. “A second chance.” _At life. At a future. At living and growing old and dying with Jamie, at seeing what I can do with my life._ Something close to a smile flitted across Jack's features, gone before it could really form. He didn't think he could handle Jamie fading from existence. Between a short, mortal life with Jamie—or any of his human friends, for that matter—or a long, existential one without him, there was no question which he'd choose. He sacrificed enough. Now it was his turn to be selfish. 

“But, but you wouldn't be a Guardian anymore, mate. You'd just be . . . well, _human._ ”

Before Jack could dwell on Bunnymund's words, North's chuckle broke through. “Jack will always be Guardian. In here,” he said, patting at the space where his heart lay. And looking into North's quiet, beaming face, Jack knew words weren't needed. Warmth, hazy and indistinct, flooded his chest. North, forever the leader of the Guardians, saw what the others failed to see, just as he'd done when he cornered Jack in his office all those years ago: _There is something special inside you, Jack._ Jack never felt more grateful as he did now. 

As if on cue, Bunnymund rounded on North. “How you can _possibly_ be okay with this. I mean, look at'm!”

“I am,” North said calmly. He tapped an eyelid. “Guardian of Wonder, remember? All you see is his shape, Bunny, not his heart. _That_ , my friends, is unchanged; and for that, we have much to thank.” North directed a piercing gaze at Jack. Jack returned it easily. If what his magic said was true, then he hadn't supposed to be a Guardian, not really. But he was now, and would always be. Bunnymund backed down, subdued, still looking like he swallowed the wrong end of a lemon. The winter spirit-turned-teenager sensed they still had things to iron out between them, but if history was any indicator, Jack trusted time to heal their tumultuous friendship. 

“It'll be fine, Cottontail,” Jack said, to lighten the mood, “I'll be doing what I've always done. Er, without all the snowballs this time. Or flying. Man, I'm gonna miss the flying. Look on the bright side! Now you'll clearly win when we race.”

“What? But I've always beaten you!” Bunnymund squawked. 

“ _Psh,_ sure. In your dreams, maybe.”

“But . . .” Tooth said, unwilling to let go just yet, “that'll mean you'll—”

“Die?” Jack snorted. It was a little ridiculous, if he thought about it. Shouldn't there be a rule about this somewhere? “I've died twice already. What's one more time? Speaking of which, thank you. For finding me. It's a little hazy, but I thought I was a goner for sure. Where did you find me, anyway?”

Here North broke his gaze to stroke his beard. The others glanced at each other. Sandy started to volunteer, but nobody could follow the spit-fire pace of his glyphs. Eventually North said in a slightly bemused tone, “We were above Canada when we receive call from Yetis—they found you on doorstep, half frozen to death. Any longer and you could've died.”

“Huh.” Jack reclined against the pillows. “Imagine that.”

 

.

 

.s.

 

.

 

Jack woke sometime after midnight and knew he wasn't alone. The dependency on sleep and the following grogginess was still disorienting, but he was slowly getting used to it. It'd been exactly a week since he first woke up at the Pole, and Tooth was at last softening to the idea Jack was human, yes, he was going to remain that way and no, there was nothing he wanted done about that. Bunnymund had taken to parking his furry butt outside Jack's door as some sort of 'protector'— _You're an ankle-biter now, snowflake,_ the big grump had said. _You're on my watch now._ Jack didn't have the heart to push him away. Actually, he was kind of touched. He would need their help—all of their help—in relearning how to be human. Apparently there were a lot of things he didn't know about: social security numbers, citizenships, addresses, _money . . ._ the list was staggering. It hurt his head, but if he was going to live as a human, he was going to do it right. And with help. Lots, and lots, of help. He was sure Jamie would help too down the road, once he learned what had happened to Jack. Jack suspected they would have a lot of catching up to do. 

Beams of moonlight striated the room in silver bands, casting half the room in shadows. A pool of light coalesced on the bed's rumpled sheets, giving the impression of a desert coated in ice. Jack shivered a little at that. In the strange half-awake moments like this one, he could sometimes recall his old dreams. He pushed himself in a sitting position, rubbing an eye. 

“Hello? Anyone _—oh._ ” Jack blinked. “It's you.” 

Pitch oozed out of the darkness with a predatory, velvety ease. Something in Jack's chest locked up. How he managed to slip past the Yetis and Bunnymund was beyond—oh, _oh._ Beds. Jack was a human now, and Pitch traveled beneath their beds. Great. He'd provided the Boogeyman a convenient pass into the Pole. Jack felt his face heat up.

“Come to finish what you started?” Jack asked. _Should I call for Bunny?_ He forced himself to relax. He lifted his chin. “You'll find I'm easy pickings these days.” 

The Boogeyman came to a stop at the foot of the bed, half in the moonlight, half in the dark. His eyes gleamed with liquid catchlights, shifting every time his pupils tracked Jack's form. He still had yet to say anything, the singular focus unnerving. Jack couldn't help but remember the first time Pitch had came to him alone in Antarctica. _That's where I learned how to defeat my magic,_ he thought. 

“Come to admire my good looks all night, Pitch? Or are you going to tell me why you're here.”

Pitch's upper lip curled a little. “Even stripped of your powers you're as cocky as ever, Frost.”

Jack tried to shrug. The movement came across more of a wriggle. “Eh, my powers weren't working for me. Going for the _au naturel_ look.”

The Boogeyman ignored him, looking through Jack as if trying to peer into his soul, or discern an answer. “The Moon truly chose him for a special reason, then,” he said, voice dangerously soft, as if speaking to himself. Lines marred his forehead as the Nightmare King scowled. “How did you know? How?” 

“How did who know what? What are you talking about?” Jack said. He instantly regretted speaking at all as Pitch's weapons-grade focus snapped to him. 

“Why did you do it?” Pitch asked with an interrogator's articulation, neglecting Jack's question. There was something off about the Boogeyman, something too tightly coiled. Though his hands were clasped behind, the dark spirit looked ready to leap across the bed and strangle Jack. 

Jack shrugged again, and this time the motion was smooth. He knew the answer to this one. “Between saving the world or letting it freeze, it wasn't much of a tossup.”

Instead of looking grateful, as Jack would've thought, Pitch's face grew darker. “You chose to be human instead.”

“Actually, I didn't know this would happen. I thought I would die, or something like that.” 

A little silence followed as the Nightmare King mulled on that. “Trust,” he muttered, almost too soft to catch. He shook his head once, snorting. He didn't explain himself, or appear like he would. Before Jack could ask what the hell he was rambling on about, Pitch said with little fanfare, “You will not see me again.”

Jack blinked. “What?”

“This is my goodbye to you, Frost. You are a human now, a brief flicker of nothing. Just another speck of dust.”

“At least this speck of dust can see your ugly mug,” Jack said, more calmly than he felt. “That should count for something.”

“Yes,” Pitch said, drawing out the _s_ with a sibilant caress, inclining his head in a mocking bow, “that you can. But that doesn't change the fact you will be dead by the time I consider your existence again. Do you understand? You're finite now. You must learn there are consequences to your actions, Jack _._ This is one of them.”

“Now wait just one minute,” Jack said, shoving a finger in the other's direction. “You _owe me._ All of you do. I could've let winter destroy the world; instead, I chose to sacrifice myself. I say that deserves some gratitude. Or at least, some favors.”

Pitch peered at him, tall and imperious, leaning far enough forward to make Jack shrink against the headboard. 

“Oh, is that so?” he said, soft and mocking and genuinely curious. “Haven't I already done enough for you?”

In that moment, Jack's suspicions were confirmed. “You. You're the one who brought me to the Pole.”

“Should've left you in the snow,” Pitch drawled, straightening. 

“Why didn't you?” Jack said hotly. 

Pitch held himself very still. Then, to the teenager's surprise, the other's mouth pulled in a smile. It wasn't cutting or dismissive like his other ones, but there was still an unhappy, razor quality to it. Jack wasn't surprised. A knife, no matter how dull, was still designed to cut. It was gone before it could really form, and Jack wondered if he'd imagined it.

“Call it a curiosity,” Pitch said, a final note to his voice. It was the _I'm leaving now_ tone that suddenly filled Jack with dread. 

“What, no more late-time visits?” Jack tried to say lightly, a little surprised at the tightness in his throat. 

The razor, slightly bitter smile came back and remained for a heartbeat. Jack was sure he saw it that time. 

“Goodbye, Frost.” The face was retreating, the body turning away.

“Wait!” Jack's heart was very loud in his ears. Pitch teetered on the cusp of disappearing, indulgent, fixing the teenager with one of his blank, heavy-lidded looks. “Wait. You're right—you don't owe me anything. Actually, I owe you.” Jack took a steadying breath. “You want to know how I did it? I defeated my magic the same way you defeated me in Antarctica: I broke its staff. Snapped its power straight in half. You can tell that to the next sorry sap when they need to stop the apocalypse.” He scratched the back of his head. “So, so yeah. Thanks.”

In that moment the Boogeyman could've said and done many cutting things—in fact, Jack was expecting it. The Nightmare King hesitated, almost entirely in the shadows now, nothing but a sliver of him remaining in the moonlight. Jack's eyes had adjusted well enough to see the rest of him, lithe and deadly. 

“I won't forget,” Pitch said quietly, and before Jack could ask what exactly he would remember, Pitch was gone. The manner of his departure went something like this: it was tiny, no more than a flicker on the edge of Jack's consciousness, as if he was remembering something important he'd forgotten. It couldn't have lasted more than a second, but the second came and went, leaving Jack too surprised to register what had just happened. 

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

_fin_

 

 


End file.
